f  : 


ONE  THING  IS  CERTAIN 


.i«IT.  OF  CALM1.  UBBAI8,   LOS  AHGILBS 


By  Sophie  Kerr 


ONE  THING  IS   CERTAIN" 
PAINTED   MEADOWS 
THE   SEE-SAW 
THE   GOLDEN    BLOCK 
THE   BLUE    ENVELOPE 
LOVE   AT   LARGE 


ONE    THING 
IS    CERTAIN 

A   Novel 

BY 

SOPHIE  KERR 


"One  thing  is  certain  and  the  rest  is  Lies; 
The  Flower  that  once  has  blown  forever  dies." 


NEW  YORK 

GEORGE  H.   DORAN  COMPANY 


Copyright,  1922, 
George  H.  Doran  Company 


ONE   THING   IS    CERTAIN.      II. 
PRINTED   IN   THE    UNITED    STATES   OF   AMERICA 


TO 

A.  C.  K. 

AND 

J.  W.  K. 

THIS     STORY     OF    THEIR     PEOPLE 
AND  THEIR  TIMES  IS  DEDICATED 


2130610 


CHARACTERS  IN  PART  ONE 


LOUELLEN  WEST 

JANE  WEST,  her  mother 

AMOS  WEST,  her  father 

ANNIE  WEST,  her  sister 

MART  BLADEN 

JOHN  HENRY  HYDE 

Miss  LENA  HYDE,  his  aunt 

DOCTOR  TOM  TITHELOW 

PARSON  TRUITT 

MRS.  TRUITT 

PRESIDING  ELDER  TODD 

Miss  BECCA  SIMPSON,  gossip  and  oracle 

RENA  MASSEY      ] 

ESTHER  DAWSON  )**"«**  °f  the  West 

MR.  LEONIDAS  AYRES 

CHES  LAYTON   1  _      .        ..  ,  _ 

BELLA  LAYTON  Cousins  of  Mart 

HANCE  WRIGHT,  Annie  West's  beau 

BEN  WRIGHT,  his  cousin 

DAN  FISHER,  Rena  Massey's  beau 

SHERIFF  STEVENS 

MATT  KEMP 

JOE  KEMP 

JERE  WILLIS 


JIM  THOMAS 
ZEB  WILLIAMS 


Young  bloods  of 
the  neighborhood 


JAY  DODSON 

AL  HIGNUTT 

GID  CUMMINS 

HANEY  GRIFFITH  J 

RACHEL,  colored  servant  of  Wests' 

(Continued  on  next  page.) 


CHARACTERS  IN  PART  ONE  (Continued) 

EDWARD,  colored  man,  Rachel's  brother 

EPHUM  }cohred  servants  Of  Mart  Bladen 

SALLY     J 

A  JEW  TIN-PEDDLER 

AMOS  WEST'S  KIN 

BEN  WEST 

MARCIA,  Ben's  wife 

TRACY  WEST 

SARAH,  Aw  wife 

GREAT-AUNT  VIRGIE 
JANE  WEST'S  KIN 

ELLA  DEVENS,  her  sister 

CLARA  DEVENS,  her  niece 

Two  other  sisters 

VIRGIE  and  JOHN  HENRY,  children  born  to 
LOUELLEN,  and  JOHN  HENRY  HYDE. 


ONE  THING  IS  CERTAIN 


PART   ONE 


NOTE:  To  disarm  certain  criticism,  which  will 
largely  be  local  to  the  neighborhood  described, 
let  me  here  assure  my  readers  that  the  story  of 
Louellen  West  is  entirely  fictitious.  I  have  used 
both  family  names  and  farm  names  common  to 
the  Eastern  Shore  of  Maryland,  but  in  no  case, 
save  in  a  very  few  minor  characters  of  but  slight 
importance  to  the  story,  do  these  names  indicate 
the  real  families  or  farms  that  happen  to  bear 
them.  So  perhaps  my  friends  will  spare  me  the 
unflattering  remarks  of  "Did  you  mean  So-and- 
So?"  or  "I  recognized  Miss  So-and-So  perfectly," 
which  followed  my  last  book  in  this  same  locale, 
and  take  my  word  for  it  that  my  imagination,  and 
not  my  memory,  supplied  me  with  the  incident 
and  the  people  of  this  novel. 

SOPHIE  KERR. 


ONE  THING  IS  CERTAIN 


PART   ONE 


CHAPTER  ONE 

ANYONE  who  takes  the  river  road  and  rides  for  two 
miles  along  its  green  shaded  solitudes  will  find  himself  at 
the  peak  of  that  little  triangular  piece  of  Amos  West's 
meadows,  about  which  he  went  to  law  with  Zebdial  Foun- 
tain, and  having  proved  his  right  to  it,  enclosed  it  with  the 
highest,  best-built  snake-rail  fence  on  the  whole  of  the 
Eastern  Shore  of  Maryland.  It  was  not  a  valuable  piece 
of  land,  but  as  Amos  West  said,  "a  boundary  line's  a 
boundary  line,"  and  carried  his  deeds  into  court  to  prove 
it.  The  contested  bit  of  land  was  a  queer  jagged  tooth, 
projecting  from  the  otherwise  even  square  of  his  prosperous 
acres,  and  had  been  cut  into  the  adjoining  tract  by  the  man 
who  once  owned  both  farms  under  the  tale-telling  title  of 
"Liden's  Venture,"  because  when  poverty  forced  him  to 
divide  his  possessions  he  was  determined  to  retain  for  his 
own  delight  the  great  beech  tree  that  marked  the  very  tip 
of  the  tooth,  the  only  tree  of  its  kind  anywhere  in  the  neigh- 
borhood. For  Liden,  of  "Liden's  Venture"  was  a  man  who 
loved  trees  better  than  he  loved  people  and  was  their  tire- 
less friend.  The  smooth  silver  trunk  of  the  beech,  and 
the  gracious  sweep  of  its  branches  were  a  delight  to  him 
that  he  wished  to  preserve. 

Amos  West  cared  not  at  all  for  the  beech  tree  as  beauty 
when  at  last  it  came  into  his  possession,  inherited  from  his 
father,  who  had  reluctantly  and  after  many  delays  fore- 


12  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

closed  his  mortgage  on  the  eastern  side  of  the  Liden  lands, 
but  since  it  was  his,  and  its  plot,  he  meant  to  make  them 
secure.  His  father,  gentle,  pious  and  kindly,  might  have 
been  willing  to  let  Zebdial  Fountain  run  a  straight  bound- 
ary line,  just  for  the  convenience  of  it,  but  Amos  was  not 
so  easy  to  come  over.  Later  he  grew  rather  proud  of  the 
beech  tree,  not  because  it  was  splendid  and  unique,  but 
because  it  was  his  own  and  he  was  a  man  who  secretly 
considered  anything  he  possessed  to  have  special  values. 

But  he  would  have  cut  down  the  tree,  and  chopped  it  into 
splinters  and  fired  its  stump,  if  he  had  known  that  his 
older  daughter,  Louellen,  met  Mart  Bladen  in  the  evening 
before  lamp-lighting  time  under  its  concealing  shade,  and 
that  they  sat  on  his  excellent  high  snake-rail  fence  and  dis- 
cussed whether  or  not  she  should  run  away  and  marry  him. 

Louellen,  in  her  full  lilac  print  crisply  sprigged  in  purple, 
was  firm  and  slim,  her  features  cut  with  delicate  precision, 
her  eyebrows  mere  black  pencil  strokes,  her  short  full  upper 
lip  curved  like  one  of  Romney's  ladies.  She  challenged 
interest,  as  do  all  people  of  two  natures.  She  had  moods 
of  being  cool  and  definite  and  determined,  sure  of  herself 
as  only  utter  youth  and  inexperience  warrant.  At  other 
times  her  gray  eyes  lit  with  sapphire  lights,  her  mouth  curled 
up  irresistibly  and  any  daring  foolish  impulse  ruled  her. 
Under  stress  she  was  confused,  child-like.  To-day  she  was 
eagerly  in  earnest. 

"You've  got  to  quit  it,  Mart.  You've  got  to  quit  running 
with  the  Kemps  and  raising  rookuses  all  over  three  counties, 
drinking,  card-playing,  breaking  up  meetings.  I  told  you 
so  after  that  big  rampage  down  at  Marshy-Hope  revival. 
And  you  went  right  ahead  and  got  into  another  mess  at  Wye 
camp.  You're  possessed." 

Mart  Bladen  leaned  on  the  fence  and  turned  his  head 
away,  not  through  any  shame,  but  for  fear  that  she  would 
see  how  much  he  wanted  to  laugh.  "You  make  me  think 
of  one  of  these  little  scolding  sparrows,  Louellen,  you  do 
indeed.  You  know  I  don't  mean  any  harm, — and  nobody 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  13 

gets  hurt.  It's  only  something  to  pass  the  time.  You  don't 
expect  me  to  sit  home  and  twiddle  my  thumbs,  do  you?" 

"You  might  pass  away  the  time  by  fixing  up  your  place 
and  working  your  crops.  Last  time  I  was  by  there  every- 
thing looked  so  down  at  the  heel  and  neglected." 

This  stung.  "Well,  it's  not.  I  got  as  good  crops  as  any- 
body. Just  because  the  hedges  aren't  trimmed  and  every- 
thing's not  whitewashed  up  to  the  nines  you  say  it's  shabby. 
I'd  fix  it  up  for  you,  honey.  I'd  trim  up  the  bushes  and 
make  flowerbeds  like  the  ones  Mother  used  to  have.  I'd 
have  the  grass  cut,  and  you  could  plant  lilacs  and  honey- 
suckle and  everything  you  want.  Only  you  keep  putting 
me  off,  so  I've  got  no  encouragement." 

He  was  broad-shouldered,  thin-flanked,  tall,  his  head  al- 
ways high,  his  blue  eyes  never  by  any  chance  grave,  not 
even  now,  when  he  was  wheedling  her.  Every  girl  for 
forty  miles  was  a  little  in  love  with  him,  but  Louellen  had 
his  heart  and  she  knew  it.  The  knowledge  made  her  cruel. 
She  felt,  as  so  many  women  feel  toward  their  lovers,  that 
she  must  make  him  over,  change  him  from  what  he  was  into 
something  different.  She  was  too  young  to  know  how  dan- 
gerous this  is  in  the  process,  how  unlikely  in  its  success. 
Therefore  she  persisted  with  her  ultimatum. 

"If  you  won't  do  it  now,  if  you  won't  stop  running  with 
the  Kemps  and  Gid  Cummins  and  Jere  Willis  and  all  the 
rest  of  'em  now,  I  know  very  well  you'd  never  do  it  after 
I — after  we—" 

He  gave  a  shout  of  delighted  laughter.  It  was  the  first 
time  he  had  ever  got  her  so  near  to  an  admission.  "After 
we're  married.  You  try  me,  Louellen.  You  just  try  me. 
I  dare  you.  I  double  dare  you.  Look,  honey,  why  not  to- 
day— right  now?  I'll  put  you  up  on  Star  behind  me,  and 
we'll  ride  down  to  Cambridge  and  be  married  before  eight 
o'clock  to-night.  Oh,  Louellen — please — honey  dear — "  He 
caught  her  hands,  buried  his  face  in  them,  pleading  hard 
with  touch  and  tone. 

But  she  drew  away.     "No,  I  won't,  Mart,  and  there's 


14  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

no  use  you  asking  me.  I  won't  run  away  and  be  married 
like  it  was  disgraceful.  I  want  my  wedding  party  and  my 
setting  out,  just  like  everybody  else.  And  that's  why  I 
keep  at  you  to  steady  down  and  stop  carrying  on  so.  If 
you  did  Pa'd  come  round.  But  after  Marshy-Hope — why 
he  said  the  constables  pretty  near  got  you.  How'd  I  felt 
if  you'd  been  put  in  jail !  And  how'd  you  felt !  Oh,  Mart, 
it's  disgraceful !  It's  mean." 

"Constables  did  pret'  nigh  get  me,  but  'twasn't  my  fault. 
It  was  Jere.  He  was  on  a  skittish  young  horse,  and  he 
wasn't  very  steady  and  when  things  began  to  get  too  hot 
and  we  had  to  ride  off  he  got  thrown  and  he  called,  and 
none  of  'em  would  go  back  for  him  but  me.  That's  the 
whole  truth.  Don't  you  believe  me,  Louellen?" 

"I  don't  see  what  difference  it  makes — Pa's  just  as  down 
on  you,  and  you  were  there  and  in  all  the  devilment.  Mart, 
won't  you  give  it  up, — the  drinking,  the  sprees,  the  gam- 
bling? Won't  you  do  it,  Mart,  for  me?" 

"So  help  me  God,  if  you'll  marry  me  I'll  never  drink  an- 
other drop  of  hard  cider  or  whisky  or  applejack  or  anything 
like  'em.  I'll  walk  wide  of  the  Kemps  and  only  pass  'em 
a  howd'ye-do  on  the  road  going  by  and  not  stopping.  I'll 
quit  cards,  unless  maybe  you'd  be  willing  to  have  a  friendly 
euchre  game  or  seven-up  in  the  house  sometimes,  without 
any  money  passing.  There's  nothing  I  wouldn't  do  for  you, 
if  you'd  marry  me." 

It  was  she  who  averted  her  head  now,  and  her  voice 
was  low. 

"What  about  Delia  Layton?"  she  asked. 

"You  don't  believe  there's  anything  in  that?  Why,  Lou- 
ellen, you  can't.  You  know  better." 

"You  go  over  there  a  lot.    You  take  her  round." 

"She's  my  second-cousin,  and  she — a  man  can't  hardly 
say  it,  but — I  go  once  to  a  dozen  times  she  asks  me  to  come. 
You  don't  think  I  care  anything  about  her?  Why  should  I 
always  be  running  after  you  if  I  want  her?  Louellen,  be 
fair.  What  do  you  want  to  keep  me  hanging  on  tenter- 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  15 

hooks  for,  for  so  long,  and  bringing  up  all  these  things  that 
ain't  worth  thinking  about?  Marry  me  now,  Louellen — I'll 
buy  you  all  the  setting-out  you  want  and  we'll  give  a  big 
wedding  supper  ourselves  if  your  Pa  won't  give  you  one. 
As  for  Delia  Layton !"  He  snapped  his  fingers.  "And  I'll 
go  straight  as  a  string — haven't  I  told  you  I  would?" 

She  held  to  her  purpose.  "Then  do  it  for  me  now.  Go 
steady  for  three  months  and  I'll  believe  you." 

He  sighed.  "For  a  sweet  little  piece  like  you  are,  you 
sure  do  know  how  to  blister  a  fellow.  What's  after  you,  any- 
way? Want  me  to  be  another  praying  machine,  like  John 
Henry  Hyde?  Want  to  see  me  walking  straight  and  holy, 
passing  the  plate  in  church,  leading  in  prayer,  teaching  in 
the  Sunday  School?" 

This  forced  her  to  laugh  with  him — Mart  Bladen,  teach- 
ing in  Sunday  School,  was  comic.  "All  the  same  his  place 
looks  ever  so  much  better  kept  than  yours.  I  told 
you  it  wasn't  so  long  since  I  was  out  that  way." 

His  smile  fled.  "Were  you  at  his  place?"  he  demanded. 
"What  were  you  there  for?  Did  he  take  you?  Who  else 
went?  You  tell  me,  Louellen.  I  won't  have  you  under 
John  Henry  Hyde's  roof,  not  if  I  know  it.  Not  now,  or 
ever.  He's  too  hard  after  you  as  it  is,  and  your  Pa  favor- 
ing him,  and  all.  What  were  you  doing  there?  You  tell  me." 

"Why — he  entertained  the  whole  Sunday  School  a  couple 
of  weeks  ago.  Didn't  you  hear  of  it?  We  all  went,  and 
had  ice  cream  and  cake  out  in  his  grove."  She  made  round 
innocent  eyes  at  him. 

"He's  a  fine  one  to  be  entertaining  the  Sunday  School! 
Why  lookahere,  Louellen,  even  if  he  didn't  want  to  marry 
you,  and  even  if  your  Pa  wasn't  so  partial  to  him,  I'd  despise 
him.  He's  close  as  the  bark  on  a  tree.  He  whips  his  horses. 
And  he  never  had  a  dog  in  his  life.  There  ain't  any  right 
sort  of  man  without  a  couple  of  dogs."  He  looked  across 
the  fence  where  Star,  his  mare,  drooped  a  drowsy  head,  with 
Spot  and  Silly,  his  setters,  waiting  patiently  beside  her. 
He  had  made  his  protest  with  an  almost  agitated  earnest- 


16  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

ness.  Dogs  and  horses  were  his  daily  companions.  They 
were  as  close  as  humanity  to  him. 

Louellen  watched  him,  touched  and  interested.  She  won- 
dered if  she  should  tell  him  that  it  was  John  Henry  Hyde's 
insistence  and  her  father's  powerful  advocacy  that  had 
made  her  urge  Mart  to  marriageable  reform.  No — better 
not.  Mart  was  too  headstrong,  too  rash.  Yet  she  felt  her- 
self caught  between  two  strong  forces,  and  suddenly  her 
sex  became  a  strait- jacket. 

"I  wish,"  she  said,  "that  there  was  something  women 
could  do  besides  get  married.  I  wish  they  could  do— some- 
thing— for  themselves — like  the  men  do." 

The  words  restored  Mart's  poise,  gave  him  back  his 
mirth.  He  did  not  probe  through  to  their  reason.  They 
were  to  him  irrelevant,  a  teasing  feminine  vagary.  "There's 
nothing  for  women  to  do  but  get  married  unless  they  want 
to  be  old  maids  and  sit  in  the  chimney  corner  and  knit," 
he  declared.  "And  there's  nothing  for  you  to  do,  in  par- 
ticular, but  marry  me.  Louellen, — you  going  to  pass  me 
your  promise?" 

All  of  his  potent  charm  was  in  the  words  and  they  were 
compellingly  eager,  but  very  humble.  She  seized  her  mo- 
ment. "I  promise  you  this :  if  you'll  go  on  good  behavior — 
and  you  know  what  I  mean,  no  breaking  loose  on  anything — 
for  as  long  as  I  say,  then  when  the  time's  up — I'll — I'll — 
make  you  the  promise  you  want,  no  matter  what  Pa  says." 

He  did  not  try  to  take  her  in  his  arms  or  kiss  her  as  she 
had  expected.  Instead  he  stood  still,  thoughtful,  something 
speculative  in  his  eyes.  "It's  going  to  be  pretty  hard,  all 
of  a  sudden,  you  know,  Louellen,  breaking  off  everything, 
and  without  you  there  to  help  me." 

She  yearned  to  make  it  easy  for  him,  but  she  would  not. 
"Still,  if  you  do  it  for  me,  then  I'll  know  how  much  you 
care  about  me."  She  shied  away  from  the  bold  word  love, 
but  it  was  in  the  air. 

"Well,  you  mean,  I  mustn't  break  out  into  anything  real 
wild  and  noisy,"  he  cajoled. 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  17 

"You  know  what  I  mean.  You  know  just  as  well  as  I 
do.  And,  Mart,  look  here,  this  is  the  last  time  I  can  come 
down  here  for  maybe  two  weeks.  Harmony  Camp  opens 
Friday  and  we're  going  to  tent.  I've  invited  Rena  Massey, 
and  Annie's  going  to  have  Esther  Dawson  and  that  just 
fills  the  tent,  with  Pa  and  Ma." 

"I  might  drop  in  to  see  you  some  Sunday — "  he  teased 
her — "for  a  little  promenade." 

"Don't  come  like  you  went  to  Wye,  then,"  she  flashed  back. 
"Oh,  Mart — it's  not  that  I  want  you  to  be  so  good,  but  if 
you  do  this  for  me,  I'll  never  have  any  more  doubt  of 
you — don't  you  see  how  'tis  ?" 

"Yes,  I  know.  But,  Louellen,  I'm  so  plaguey  uncertain. 
I  don't  mean  to  rip  loose,  but  first  thing  I  know  I'm  off. 
It's  right  dreary  with  nobody  on  the  place  but  the  niggers, 
and  I  get  on  Star  here,  and  go  careering  off,  or  somebody 
comes  by  and  gives  me  a  hail,  and  then — one  thing  leads 
to  another."  His  wistfulness  continued,  trying  to  make  her 
comprehend  the  heat  and  urge  of  his  young  blood,  his  need 
of  distraction. 

She  shook  her  head,  determinedly.  "I've  said  my  last 
word,  Mart.  I  told  you  before,  but  this  is  the  last  time. 
If  you  won't  do  this  much  for  me,  then  it's  all  over.  Oh, 
Mart — won't  you  ?  When  I  want  you  to,  so  much  ?" 

"Honey — dear — yes,  I  will — I'll  do  every  single  thing  you 
want.  I'll  take  out  my  energy  plowing  and  cultivating — 
though  I  do  think  there'd  be  time  enough  for  that  after  we're 
married — and  you  won't  hear  anything  about  me  except  that 
I'm  a  changed  character,  steady  as  a  clock,  quiet  as  old 
Grandpa  Martindale,  and  he  never  stirred  out  of  the  house 
for  nineteen  years,  they  say,  and  never  spoke  unless  he  had 
to.  Now — you  satisfied?" 

"You  got  to  keep  it  up  three  months,"  she  exacted. 

"Let's  see — August — September — October — oh,  now,  Lou- 
ellen, say  two  months.  October's  a  grand  month  to  get 
married  in." 

"Two  months  and  a  half,  anyway."     She  swung  herself 


18  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

down  from  the  fence.  "I've  got  to  go  back.  Pa'll  be  home 
before  I  get  there  if  I  don't  look  out.  I  told  Rachel  and 
Annie  both  if  he  asked  for  me  to  tell  him  I  was  off  hunting 
guinea  hens'  nests.  But  I  can't  be  too  long,  even  so." 

He  stopped  her,  his  hands  on  her  shoulders,  beseeching 
and  longing :  "Kiss  me  good-by,  Louellen,  this  once.  You're 
promised  to  me  now.  You're  my  girl.  You've  never  let 
me  kiss  you.  But  now — please.  I  won't  see  you  for  so 
long."  He  stooped  to  her,  drawing  her  close,  but  she  pulled 
away. 

"No — no!  Not  till  I'm  sure — not  till  you've  kept  your 
word  about  the — sprees — and  the — the  cards — and  the  night- 
riding.  I'm  not  really  promised  to  you  till  then.  I  won't 
let  any  man  kiss  me  till  I'm  promised." 

"It  would  help  me  a  lot  if  you  would.  Just  one."  But 
he  knew  she  would  not.  He  had  never  had  his  way  with 
Louellen  as  he  had  with  a  dozen  other  girls.  It  was  one 
of  the  bonds  that  held  him  to  her. 

"No.  But  Mart — you've  passed  me  your  word — to  keep 
steady — you've  promised.  And  I  mean  it — if  you  break 
your  promise  I'll  never  have  anything  more  to  do  with 
you.  Never." 

She  picked  up  her  white  sunbonnet  and  made  it  a  ruf- 
fled aureole  about  her  brown  hair,  and  took  the  hidden  secret 
path  through  the  crowding  warm  laurel  and  sassafras  and 
young  pine  toward  home.  He  watched  her  go.  This,  too, 
marked  her  difference  from  the  other  girls,  for  it  was  they 
who  watched  him  mount  his  horse  and  ride  away,  lingering 
to  catch  the  last  glimpse  of  him.  But  it  was  always  Mart 
who  lingered  to  catch  the  last  glimpse  of  Louellen.  Only 
when  the  last  faint  sound  and  gleam  of  her  were  gone  did 
he  vault  the  fence,  catch  up  Star's  dropped  rein  and  canter 
off  down  the  river  road,  with  Silly  and  Spot  loping  eagerly 
beside  him.  For  once  there  was  no  laughter  in  his  face. 
He  had  made  a  promise  which  he  profoundly  distrusted 
his  ability  to  keep,  for  all  its  significance.  It  opened  up  an 
arid  vista  of  work  and  no  play,  and  this  in  mid-summer 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  19 

when  farm  labor  slackens,  and  the  still  nights  are  won- 
derful for  riding;  when  he  had  arranged  a  main  for  his 
game  cock  Zulu  King  with  Matt  Kemp's  Fancy;  when  all 
the  cider  presses  were  busy  with  the  fragrant  liquor  he 
loved — when,  in  short,  the  tide  of  life  flowed  fullest  and 
most  free. 

Then  he  brightened.  It  was  only  two  months  and  a  half — » 
thirty — sixty — seventy-five  days.  "And  she's  worth  it," 
he  told  Star,  and  shifted  his  knee  to  quicken  her  gait.  "My 
girl!  My  Louellen!"  He  softened  to  dreams  of  her  in 
the  bare  rooms  where  Ephum  and  Sally,  his  colored  house- 
servants,  now  reigned  supreme  in  slatternly  comfort.  He 
would  fix  it  up  for  her,  mow  the  grass-grown  garden  plot, 
plant  the  flowers  she  liked,  nail  up  trellises,  repair  the  fall- 
ing arbor,  paint  and  whitewash  lavishly.  It  would  all  be 
fair  and  orderly  again,  as  it  had  been  in  his  mother's  time. 
He  was  the  youngest,  left  at  home  after  his  two  sisters  mar- 
ried, and  he  had  never  cared  to  change  his  scene. 

Yet  it  was  true,  as  he  protested  to  Louellen,  the  dullness 
of  his  solitude  had  driven  him  to  wild  company,  for  he 
was  a  social  soul,  gregarious  by  instinct.  All  that  life  of- 
fered of  sensation  he  hastened  to  take,  and  the  very  per- 
fection and  power  of  his  body  had  retarded  any  overgrowth 
of  conscience,  for  a  man  who  can  ride  and  drink  all  night 
and  get  up  clear-headed  and  clear-eyed  seldom  develops 
the  moral  sense  of  the  bilious. 

Seven  generations  of  Bladens  had  tilled  the  acres  that 
were  now  his,  and  the  first  of  them  had  landed  at  the  time 
when  Penn's  intrigues  and  Coode's  Associators  were  making 
the  life  of  Charles,  third  Lord  Baltimore,  a  daily  uncertainty 
as  to  whether  he  was  a  "prince  little  less  than  a  sovereign, 
or  a  mere  absentee  landlord."  The  first  Bladen  had  come 
over  as  a  servant,  but  presently  had  won  his  freedom,  and 
taken  up  land,  and  as  he  was  a  diligent  worker,  and  "merrie 
of  heart"  beside,  according  to  the  parish  record  of  him, 
he  had  sound  property  and  sound  qualities  to  bequeath  to 
his  sons.  All  of  the  Bladens  had  been  fair  at  a  bargain, 


20  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

honest,  without  taste  for  loose  women,  bitten  by  no  spite 
or  rancor,  expert  at  farming  and  with  cattle,  and  keen  for 
mirth  and  good  company,  but  very  lax  in  church-going.  It 
was  so  that  Mart,  the  latest  of  the  line,  knew  himself,  and 
anything  more  was  outside  his  sphere  of  what  was  right 
and  reasonable.  In  his  quick  protest  to  Louellen  against 
the  cutting  off  of  all  his  boisterous  rough  pleasures  he  be- 
trayed his  knowledge  of  himself. 

Of  course,  when  a  man  marries,  he  must  expect  to  settle 
down — somewhat.  It  wasn't  that  he  blamed  her  for  exact- 
ing the  promise,  or  that  he  meant  knowingly  to  evade  it, 
but — it  was  so  devilish  hard  to  say  no  when  good  fellowship 
called  to  his  sporting  spirit,  and  the  quiet  routine  of  the 
farm  demanded  to  be  spiced  with  adventure.  He  hoped 
fervently  that  he  would  be  able  to  stick  it  out,  and  some- 
thing in  the  back  of  his  head  reminded  him  that,  if  he 
shouldn't,  maybe  he'd  be  able  to  keep  it  quiet,  or,  quite 
possibly,  Louellen  wouldn't  keep  her  word  to  let  one  more 
escapade  divide  them.  No,  she'd  never  do  that — any  more 
than  he  would  do  it  with  her,  if  it  was  the  other  way  round. 
He  laughed  aloud  at  the  thought  of  his  Louellen  rampaging, 
in  need  of  his  forgiveness. 

"But  she's  got  a  streak  of  steel  in  her,  out  of  old  Amos 
sure.  I  wish  she'd  Ve  kissed  me.  .  .  ." 

He  did  not  imagine  it,  but  on  her  way  home,  Louellen 
was  echoing  that  wish.  She  had  wanted  that  kiss,  burnt 
for  it.  The  very  vehemence  of  her  denial  of  it  proved  that 
to  her,  and  she  was  ashamed.  In  her  strict  up-bringing 
to  want  to  let  a  man  kiss  you  was  immodest,  if  not  actually 
indecent.  So  she  was  ashamed.  Besides  she  was  afraid, 
afraid  of  the  decision  she  had  made.  It  wearied  and  alarmed 
her  that  she  must  decide.  When  she  had  cried  out  that  she 
wished  there  was  something  women  could  do  besides  marry 
she  was  voicing  that  weariness  and  alarm.  She  was  being 
urged  so  fast  toward  marriage,  by  Mart  in  secret,  by  John 
Henry  Hyde  openly,  and  with  more  urgency,  because  her 
father  was  his  backer. 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  21 

Her  mother  had  remained  oddly  silent  about  John  Henry's 
courting,  and  Louellen  felt  reservations  in  Jane  West's 
silence  when  he  was  mentioned,  scented  criticism  of  him  in 
the  elder  woman's  calm  scrutiny  when  he  was  present.  She 
had  said,  "He's  not  got  much  mellerness  about  him,"  and 
Louellen  had  turned  that  phrase  over  in  her  thoughts  very 
often,  since. 

Well,  now  she  had  made  up  her  mind,  once  and  for  all. 
That  is,  if  Mart  .  .  . 

But  Mart  would.  He  had  promised.  He  had  promised 
faithfully,  even  though  with  obvious  misgivings.  If  he 
did  not  keep  that  promise — she  shook  her  head.  She  could 
not  face  the  answer  to  the  question  raised  by  that  chill 
doubt.  She  put  it  away  from  her.  He  must  keep  it.  Even 
so,  even  if  he  turned  a  model  of  propriety  and  industry  it 
was  not  going  to  be  easy  to  win  her  father  over.  Amos 
West  was  patriarchal  in  his  ideas.  Authority,  he  held,  was 
vested  in  the  male  parent.  It  was  almost  impossible  to  fancy 
herself  defying  her  father,  and  she  knew  well  how  he  felt 
about  Mart. 

Amos  West's  dislike  for  Mart  was  long  and  deep-seated, 
based  on  a  dark  Puritanical  hatred  of  all  who  love  pleasure 
and  cannot  be  barred  from  it,  by  law  or  public  opinion.  It 
irked  Amos  West  that  Mart  should  be  able  to  stay  away 
from  church,  and  yet  be  as  good  a  farmer  as  any  of  the 
godly.  He  could  have  seen  a  pestilence  of  drouth  or  insects 
descend  on  the  Bladen  acres  with  a  pleasurable  consciousness 
that  God  is  not  mocked,  and  no  slightest  twinge  of  pity  for 
the  misfortune  of  a  fellow  creature.  It  outraged  him  to 
see  Mart  cantering  blithely  away  to  godless  diversions,  when 
he  himself  was  on  his  way  to  prayer  meeting.  As  for  the 
young  man's  pretensions  to  Louellen, — Amos  West  never 
even  suspected  the  fervor  and  extent  of  them,  but  there  was 
something  about  the  way  Mart  looked  and  spoke  to  him,  a 
light  disregard  of  his  disapproval,  a  sort  of  baffling  twinkle 
of  amusement  at  his  frown,  that  woke  in  him  a  f anged  anger. 
The  souls  of  the  two  clashed  involuntarily.  There  would 


22  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

have  to  be  a  profound  change  in  Mart  before  Amos  West 
would  so  much  as  tolerate  him.  Yet  Amos  West  was  an 
honest  man,  a  just  man,  and  in  most  things,  kind.  His  rep- 
robation of  the  ungodly  was  sincere,  but  they  did  not  move 
him  to  pity.  Like  Isaiah  he  spared  not  to  lift  up  his  voice 
to  show  them  their  transgressions.  Like  Malachi  he  felt 
it  was  right  to  tread  down  the  wicked. 

Louellen  sighed.  It  seemed  a  tangled  coil  indeed,  which- 
ever way  she  approached  it.  The  path  from  the  beech  tree 
had  led  her  along  a  field  of  late  corn,  stiff  rustling  green. 
She  threaded  its  maze  quickly,  came  out  near  the  stables, 
rounded  the  silver-gold  bulk  of  the  straw  stacks,  and  on  the 
lane  to  the  house  found  Rachel  picking  into  her  apron  the 
purple  French  plums  from  the  tree  by  the  beehives. 

The  negress  turned  at  her  step.  "Oh,  heah  you  is.  Fine 
'at  guinea-keet's  nes'  ?"  she  asked  with  a  chuckle. 

"Not  a  sign  of  it,"  said  Louellen  cheerfully. 

"Well,  you  fine  sompen  else,  I  be  boun'.  Y'ain'  come 
erlong  so  light-foot  en  wishful  fer  nothin'." 

Louellen  would  have  liked  to  tell  her,  but  she  was  sure 
that  Rachel  knew  anyway  and  telling  would  spoil  their 
good  understanding.  She  stopped  and  picked  a  handful 
of  the  bloomy  perfumed  fruit.  Their  color  melted  pleas- 
antly with  the  purple  of  her  dress,  and  she  noted  this  ab- 
sently, losing  herself  again  at  her  cross-roads  of  purpose. 

"Men  are  a  nuisance,  aren't  they,  Rachel!  Always  at 
you  about  something  or  other,  always  bothering,  never  sat- 
isfied to  let  you  go  your  own  way  and  take  your  own  time, 
but  hustling  you  into  theirs." 

"Listen  to  y',  listen  to  y' !  You  ma'k  me,  chile,  dishyer'd 
be  a  mighty  po'  worl',  widout  no  tas'e  to  it  at  all,  ef  dey 
wasn'  no  men.  Dey  do  mek  trouble,  but  dey  sure  do  keep 
things  stirrin'." 

"Well,  that's  true,  anyway,"  said  Louellen,  with  emphasis, 
and  went  on  into  the  house. 


CHAPTER  TWO 

RENA  MASSEY  had  usurped  the  small  mirror  and  stood 
before  it  trying  to  get  a  complete  view  of  her  white  flowered 
polonaise,  her  tight  black  jersey  and  the  narrow  cherry- 
colored  ribbon  which  she  had  tied  about  her  full  throat  with 
drooping  loops  at  the  side.  Annie  West  and  Esther  Daw- 
son  watched  her  with  open  admiration,  Louellen  a  little 
more  critically.  Rena  was  the  daughter  of  the  man  who 
kept  the  biggest  dry-goods  store  in  Manor,  the  county  seat, 
and  was  therefore  the  only  town  mouse  in  the  lot.  As  such 
her  manner  held  a  certain  condescension.  Not  that  she 
said  anything — but  she  had  a  way  of  looking  at  their  clothes 
and  then  at  her  own.  And  her  chignon  was  quite  twice 
the  size  of  any  of  theirs.  She  had  a  round  box  of  Pond- 
lily  Face-powder  which  they  envied  heartily  and  as  heartily 
agreed  that  it  was  a  sinful  vanity.  She  had  a  scent  flagon, 
too,  filled  with  clear  pale  green  eau-de-cologne,  which  she 
dabbed  on  every  fresh  handkerchief. 

They  had  come  upstairs  to  dress  for  the  evening  service 
in  the  cramped  upper  story  of  the  pine  shack,  which  was, 
nevertheless,  one  of  the  best  "tents"  in  the  whole  camp- 
ground, placed  in  the  very  center  of  the  block  facing  the 
preacher's  stand.  They  were  all  ready,  except  Rena,  who 
was  always  last. 

"I've  got  a  little  piece  of  blue  velvet  ribbon  just  that 
width  I  believe  I  could  tie  up  like  yours,"  said  Louellen, 
watching  the  manipulation  of  the  cherry  bow. 

"Well — you  might  try  it,"  Rena  assented  airily.  "But 
velvet's  stiff.  It  ought  to  be  moire." 

Louellen  was  not  discouraged.  For  all  Rena's  style, 
her  father  was  only  a  storekeeper  running  on  borrowed 
money, — Amos  West  had  said  so,  and  he  was  not  given  to 
vain  speech. 

23 


24  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

"I  think  velvet  will  look  all  right,"  she  said,  and  got  up 
off  the  bed  where  she  had  been  perched  with  Annie  and 
Esther,  to  rummage  in  her  trunk.  There  was  just  room 
enough  for  her  to  get  round  the  beds,  bunks  of  rough  lum- 
ber, but  spread  with  spotless  sheets  and  fine  "Feather  Star" 
and  "Tree  of  Paradise"  quilts.  This  "tent"  was,  like  all  the 
others,  nothing  but  two  rooms — one  downstairs  and  one 
above — connected  by  a  tiny  rough  stairway,  built  with  a 
peaked  gable,  which  fronted  on  the  camp-ground,  and  gave 
it  the  look  of  a  giant  bird-box.  It  was  unceiled,  unplastered. 
In  the  upper  room  the  windows  were  wide  slits  that  ex- 
tended all  the  way  across  the  front  and  back,  and  could  be 
closed  in  case  of  storms  by  hinged  planks,  now  hooked  up 
to  let  the  air  in,  the  opening  covered  with  mosquito  net. 
Two  wide  bunk  beds,  an  old  chest  of  drawers  with  the 
mirror  atop  it  where  Rena  was  prinking,  a  wash-stand  with 
towels  hanging  on  the  bar,  a  kerosene  hand  lamp  with  red 
oil  in  its  glass  body, — these  were  all  the  furnishings.  This 
room  was  given  over,  for  the  time  of  the  camp-meeting, 
to  the  girls  and  their  friends. 

Downstairs  was  another  bed,  for  Amos  West  and  his 
wife,  their  bureau  and  wash-stand  shunted  behind  a  cur- 
tain which  expressed  the  properties,  and  as  many  chairs  as 
could  be  got  into  the  remaining  space.  And  the  whole 
front,  downstairs,  was  open  to  the  camp-ground,  closed  at 
night  by  removable  panels  of  planks,  that  fitted  none  too 
well.  Louellen  and  Annie,  wishful  of  elegance,  had  per- 
suaded their  mother  this  year  to  hang  lace  curtains  at  each 
side  of  the  wide  downstairs  front,  and  tie  them  back  with 
bows  of  pink  ribbon.  With  a  little  variation  in  size  and  con- 
tents the  West  tent  duplicated  every  other  on  the  ground. 
For  the  ten  days  of  these  open-air  services  the  faithful  and 
their  families  lived  a  life  that  was  half-gypsy,  half-saint, 
and  found  the  combination  piquant  and  pleasing. 

Louellen,  with  the  ribbon  in  her  hand,  advanced  boldly 
to  the  mirror.  By  sheer  force  of  will  she  moved  Rena  away 
from  it.  Rena  was  fair-haired  and  pink-fleshed,  blooming, — 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  25 

in  another  five  years  she  would  be  over-blown  and  her  high 
color  would  be  fixed  in  her  round  cheeks  like  the  redness 
of  a  winter  apple.  Now  she  was  luscious  and  she  knew  it. 
She  watched  Louellen  with  the  ribbon  complacently. 

But  Louellen's  slender  fingers,  pointed,  quick,  were  deft 
and  sure,  and  when  she  had  the  bow  tied  to  her  liking  she 
turned  in  triumph  to  her  audience. 

"There !"  she  cried.    "What  about  that?" 

"I  think  it's  real  stylish,"  ventured  Esther  Dawson,  with 
a  side  glance  at  Rena. 

Indeed,  the  clear  blue  brought  out  the  blue  lights  in 
Louellen's  eyes,  contrasted  charmingly  with  the  shadowy 
ecru  of  her  India  muslin.  Rena,  observing  her,  suddenly 
decided  to  be  amiable.  What  was  a  blue  ribbon,  more  or 
less.  Louellen  had  too  many  beaux,  desirable  ones  and 
energetic  in  their  attentions,  to  be  snubbed  as  a  less  at- 
tractive girl  might  be. 

"It's  sweet,"  said  Rena.  "It  looks  perfectly  all  right, 
even  if  it  is  velvet." 

"Oh,  I  wish  I  had  one,"  said  Annie,  looking  from  one  to 
the  other  of  the  older  girls.  "Haven't  you  got  another 
piece,  sis?" 

"You  can  take  this  one,"  said  Louellen,  with  instant  gen- 
erosity. "I  don't  care.  I  just  happened  to  think  of  it." 

"That's  just  like  you,  Lou,"  commented  Rena.  "You'd 
give  away  your  head  if  it  wasn't  tight  to  your  shoulders." 

"I  won't  take  it,"  protested  Annie.  "I  thought  maybe 
there  was  another  piece.  I'm  not  such  a  pig  as  all  that 
when  you  thought  of  it  and  it  looks  so  nice  on  you." 

"Yes,  you  take  it.  It'll  look  even  nicer  on  you."  Louellen 
was  imperious,  compelling.  She  was  accustomed  to  rule 
Annie  even  in  her  generosities.  She  tied  the  blue  ribbon 
about  the  younger  girl's  throat  and  pulled  her  up  in  front 
of  the  mirror.  "It  does  look  nice.  You  keep  it,  Annie, — 
I'll  give  it  to  you.  Next  time  I  go  to  town  I'll  get  me  an- 
other." 

"I  hate  to — "  but  she  turned  this  way  and  that,   fas- 


26  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

cinated  by  following  the  mode  of  so  fashionable  a  person 
as  Rena.  "You  sure  you  don't  care?" 

"Not  a  bit."  Louellen  glanced  about.  "We're  all  ready, 
aren't  we?  Don't  let's  go  down  right  away.  There'll  just 
be  a  parcel  of  old  folks  down  there,  Miss  Becca  Simpson 
in  her  changeable  silk  and  her  false  front,  and  old  Mrs. 
Esma  Lowe,  and  all  talking  about  nothing  but  how  beau- 
tiful Parson  Truitt's  prayers  are  and  who's  going  to  exhort 
to-night,  and  who's  been  to  the  mourner's  bench,  and  who 
hasn't.  There  won't  even  be  anybody  promenading,  yet." 

The  four  girls  acquiescently  settled  themselves  in  a  row 
where  they  could  look  out  of  the  wide  front  aperture,  sit- 
ting on  the  side  of  the  bed  nearest  to  it.  First  Annie, 
slight,  fair-haired  and  wide-eyed,  prim  in  white  pique,  finger- 
ing the  new  blue  bow  with  little  pleased  movements;  then 
Esther  Dawson,  small  and  dark  and  sharp,  yet  unconquer- 
ably shy,  in  a  bright  pink  muslin  that  did  not  become  her, 
a  string  of  gold  beads  close  about  her  neck,  a  gold  fringed 
bracelet  with  a  black  enameled  buckle  fastened  round  her 
thin  wrist ;  then  Rena,  opulent,  stylish,  perfumed,  her  heavy 
shining  hair  looped  intricately,  her  little  pink  tongue  con- 
stantly moistening  her  full  impatient  lips;  and  at  the  foot 
of  the  bed  Louellen,  definite,  cool  and  quick,  no  more 
eclipsed  by  the  larger,  more  vivid  Rena  than  a  tea  rose  is 
eclipsed  by  a  peony. 

Before  and  beneath  them  in  the  August  twilight  was  the 
open  square,  and  at  the  very  center  the  preacher's  stand, 
a  high  platform  with  a  canopy  roof  supported  by  four  cor- 
ner posts.  A  big  tin  kerosene  lamp  hung  there,  as  yet  un- 
lighted,  and  there  was  a  wooden  pulpit  with  Bibles  and  hymn 
books  on  it,  and  at  one  side  a  small  organ  and  some  chairs  for 
the  choir.  There  were  other  chairs  and  a  bench  where  as- 
sisting ministers  might  sit  until  their  turn  came  to  exhort 
or  offer  prayer. 

All  around  the  preacher's  stand  clustered  the  trees  of  the 
grove,  oak,  pine,  and  sweet-gum,  moving  their  branches 
a  little  in  the  evening  breeze  as  if  to  exchange  sedate  com- 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  27 

ment  on  the  unusual  scene  below  them.  In  among  the  trees 
were  the  benches  for  the  congregation,  nothing  more  than 
boards  nailed  on  low  supports,  splintery  and  uneven,  back- 
less, surely  a  test  of  piety's  endurance.  And  at  the  edge 
of  these  benches,  separating  them  from  the  surrounding 
square  of  tents  and  binding  them  into  coherent  shape,  was 
a  wide  walk,  sprinkled  with  sawdust,  known  as  the  prome- 
nade. Here  the  young  folks  strolled  before  and  after  serv- 
ice, round  and  round  endlessly,  pausing  now  and  then  to 
visit  friends  in  the  tents  and  to  observe  the  other  prome- 
naders.  Older  folk  did  not  often  promenade,  though  they 
found  it  a  diversion  to  watch.  It  was  a  wonderful  place 
to  display  a  new  frock  or  a  new  beau,  to  find  out  what  was 
going  on  all  round  the  camp-ground — and  it  was  the  sole 
concession  to  social  vanity  and  worldliness  that  the  campers 
made. 

At  the  four  corners  of  the  square  of  benches  there  were 
wooden  trays  filled  with  sand,  mounted  on  posts  that  stood 
high  above  the  heads  of  the  crowd.  On  the  sand  was  piled 
light-wood  which  would  presently  be  fired  to  shed  a  murky 
smoky  light  over  the  scene  of  worship.  A  negro  man, 
standing  on  a  high  box,  was  piling  fuel  on  the  nearest  of 
these  trays  and  the  girls  watched  him. 

"That's  old  Unc'  Jeems  King  that  waits  over  at  the 
boarding  tent,"  said  Esther  Dawson,  recognizing  him.  "He's 
the  best  old  nigger.  Yesterday,  when  I  lost  my  handker- 
chief he  came  all  the  way  round  the  square  trying  to  find 
out  whose  it  was." 

"The  boarding  tent's  been  elegant  this  year,"  commented 
Rena,  who  liked  food.  "With  all  that  crowd  for  dinner 
to-day  there  was  enough  and  to  spare.  But  I  was  glad  we 
went  over  early — quite  a  sight  those  four  sucking  pigs 
roasted  so  beautifully  and  sitting  in  a  row  down  the  table! 
I'm  glad  I  saw  'em  before  the  carving  began.  And  that 
chicken  pie — grand!" 

"It's  been  a  real  nice  camp,"  added  Esther.  "I'm  sorry 
it  breaks  up  to-morrow." 


28  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

"So'm  I,"  said  Annie.    "It's  been  fun." 

"Better  not  let  Brother  John  Henry  Hyde  hear  you  call- 
ing it  fun,"  mocked  Rena  with  a  side-glance  at  Louellen. 
"He'd  take  a  fit." 

"Oh,  he  won't  care  what  I  say,"  giggled  Annie.  "But  if 
Louellen  said  it,  it  would  pain  and  distress  him.  Such 
levity !" 

Louellen  tossed  her  head.  "It's  nothing  to  me  what  pains 
and  distresses  John  Henry.  He  always  acts  like  he'd  swal- 
lowed a  poker." 

Rena  looked  at  her  curiously.  John  Henry  Hyde's  prop- 
erty made  him  what  she  thought  of  as  "a  catch."  Every 
one  knew  how  hotly  he  was  courting  Louellen,  and  that  her 
father  favored  him.  His  persistence  had  driven  off  most 
of  the  other  young  men  who  had  been  hanging  stickily  round 
the  Wests'  front  parlor  ever  since  Louellen  was  seventeen. 
Coolly  to  run  down  so  eligible  a  match  argued  a  disinter- 
estedness of  which  Rena  was  incapable  and  the  validity  of 
which  she  questioned  in  another.  Hadn't  she  seen  John 
Henry  on  hand  every  day  at  the  camp,  and  Louellen  with 
him?  Usually  such  appearances  meant  only  one  thing,  an 
engagement.  But  Louellen  was  so  offhand  about  him  .  .  . 
and  besides  there  were  rumors.  .  .  . 

And  now  Esther  voiced  these  rumors  teasingly:  "I 
reckon  Mart  Bladen  wouldn't  object  to  a  little  levity — 

"Sh-h,"  said  Louellen,  with  an  involuntary  gesture,  indi- 
cating the  room  below. 

"Pa's  so  down  on  him,"  whispered  Annie,  completing  the 
warning.  "Won't  even  hear  his  name !" 

Rena's  eyes  flashed  with  real  envy.  To  have  Mart  Bladen 
paying  you  such  attention  as  to  win  your  parents'  disap- 
proval !  How  did  Louellen  do  it !  Certainly  not  by  her 
looks.  It  was  all  a  mystery  to  Rena.  She  spoke  with  hope- 
less enthusiasm:  "Oh,  isn't  he  the  most  fascinating  thing! 
But  so  wild.  I  heard  that  the  constables  almost  got  him 
down  at  Marshy-Hope  chapel.  He's  a  case,  if  there  ever 
was  one." 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  29 

Louellen  could  not  keep  from  explaining  why  he  had  been 
so  nearly  captured.  "He  went  back  after  Jere  Willis," 
she  whispered.  "Took  him  up  on  his  horse  and  got  away 
with  him.  The  others  all  rode  off,  the  Kemp  boys,  and  Gid 
Cummins,  and  Jim  Thomas  and  Zeb  Williams — the  whole 
lot  of  'em.  Jere  was  riding  a  young  horse  and  it  threw 
him,  and  he  called  out  and  Mart  went  back." 

"You're  very  well  informed,"  tittered  Rena. 

Louellen  flushed.  She  had  not  seen  nor  heard  from  Mart 
since  the  day  under  the  beech  tree,  nearly  two  weeks  ago, 
and  he  had  been  so  anxiously  and  constantly  in  her  thoughts 
that  to  speak  of  him,  even  blindly,  was  a  relief.  "I  think 
we  might's  well  go  down.  It's  pretty  near  time  for  evening 
service,"  she  said. 

She  led  the  way  and  the  others  followed  and  maneuvered 
themselves  down  the  narrow  twisted  stairway,  holding  their 
long  skirts  from  unplaned  edges  and  projecting  nail  heads. 
As  they  went  Esther  nudged  Annie  and  nodded  toward  Lou- 
ellen, and  Annie  made  knowing  eyes.  They  hunched  their 
shoulders  and  giggled  silently. 


CHAPTER  THREE 

THEY  came  down  to  a  scene  that  rippled  and  waved 
with  excitement.  Lamps  had  been  lit,  people  had  come  in, 
the  bare  little  room  was  crowded.  In  the  midst  of  it  stood 
Amos  West,  tall,  austere,  his  long  beard  and  shaven  upper 
lip,  his  high  narrow  forehead  and  fierce  brows  giving  him 
the  aspect  of  a  minor  prophet  of  the  more  denunciatory 
sort.  Two  other  men  were  there,  one  rotund,  red,  truculent, 
the  other  unmistakably  a  cleric,  bland  by  custom  but  now 
ruffled  and  apprehensive.  His  voice,  even  in  conversation, 
had  the  resonant  twang  and  the  conventional  downward 
swoop  at  the  end  of  a  phrase  that  mark  the  old-style  Meth- 
odist. 

About  the  men  clustered  their  women-folk, — Mrs.  West, 
her  gold  watch  chain  breaking  the  plainness  of  her  tight 
buttoned  black  alpaca  basque,  her  lips  pursed,  but  a  vagrom 
gleam  of  humor  in  her  eyes,  was  at  her  husband's  elbow. 
She  was  sometimes  suspected  of  sympathy  for  the  unregen- 
erate,  though  her  actions  never  justified  this  suspicion.  The 
others  were  negligible,  but  for  one,  Miss  Becca  Simpson, 
short,  immensely  fat,  dressed,  even  as  Louellen  had  said, 
in  a  red  and  green  changeable  silk,  extinguished  in  ruches, 
her  false  front  a  mass  of  curly  black  ringlets ;  her  eccentric- 
ities were  accepted  as  harmless,  and  her  exaggerations  gave 
a  peppery  tang  to  local  gossip. 

The  three  men  were  talking  at  once,  but  through  and  over 
their  voices  the  preacher's  penetrating  accents  prevailed. 

"...  and  at  the  first  intimation  I  came  at  once  to  Bro* 
Ayres  and  told  him  that  as  overseer  of  the  camp-ground 
he  was  responsible  for  law  and  order,  and  that  if  these 
rowdies  really  planned  to  create  any  disturbance  he  should 
provide  extra  constables  or  notify  the  sheriff — " 

30 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  31 

"They  cut  the  harness  off  half  the  horses  down  at  Ma'shy- 
Hope  revival,"  flung  in  Miss  Becca,  with  relish. 

"...  but  he  has  done  nothing  whatever  about  it  and 
with  the  Presiding  Elder  to  preach  to-night,  and  ministers 
from  some  of  the  best  charges  on  the  Shore  on  the  preach- 
ers' stand — and  the  last  night  of  camp — it's  nothing  short 
of  disgraceful." 

Brother  Ayres  defended  himself,  his  red  face  getting 
redder,  his  little  eyes  snapping:  "Now  don't  you  get  so 
excited,  Bro'  Truitt.  Ches  Layton  rode  in  not  half  an  hour 
ago  with  his  sister,  and  he  said  there  wasn't  the  slightest 
danger  of  that  gang  coming  round  here,  and  he  cert'ney 
ought  to  know  what's  going  on,  seeing's  he's  kin  to  Mart  Bla- 
den  and  hand  in  glove  with  'em  all,  good  bit  of  the  time. 
By  jolly,  they  better  lay  pretty  low  after  that  Wye  trouble." 

"Who  brought  the  rumor  in  the  first  place?"  asked  Amos 
West. 

The  girls  had  clustered  at  the  back,  silent,  all  ears,  but  at 
the  mention  of  Mart  Bladen  Annie  pinched  Louellen's  arm. 
Louellen  did  not  quiver.  She  was  turned  to  stone,  waiting, 
listening. 

"John  Henry  Hyde.  Said  somebody  from  over  at  the 
Corner  told  him.  Said  the  whole  lot  of  'em  had  been  at 
Joe  Kemp's  place  all  day,  drinking  hard  cider,  and  whoop- 
ing like  a  band  of  Indians.  Tillie  Kemp  got  scared  and 
took  the  children  and  run  over  to  a  neighbor's,  but  Joe 
come  after  her  and  made  her  go  back  and  get  dinner  for 
'em.  Oh,  they're  ripe  for  any  devilment,  but,  by  jolly,  they 
won't  start  none  here.  They  know  I'd  land  every  man  jack 
of  'em  in  jail,  soon's  wink." 

Louellen  curled  her  lips  in  faint  derision.  As  if  anybody 
was  afraid  of  Mr.  Leonidas  Ayres,  least  of  all  the  band  of 
men  he  was  talking  about !  He'd  never  put  any  one  in  jail — 
he  was  going  to  run  for  sheriff  in  the  fall  and  he  wanted 
the  Kemp  influence.  She  relaxed  a  little.  None  of  this 
implicated  Mart,  and  that  was  the  only  thing  she  cared 


32  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

about.  It  hadn't  even  been  said  that  he  was  with  them. 
Of  course,  he  wasn't.  She  told  herself  this  fiercely. 

"Well,  I  think  some  action  should  be  taken,"  persisted 
the  preacher,  looking  hostilely  at  Bro'  Ayres. 

Amos  West's  voice,  calm,  decisive,  settled  the  agitation. 
"It's  about  time  for  evening  service.  People  are  beginning 
to  gather.  You  go  along  up  to  the  preacher's  stand,  Bro' 
Truitt,  and  Bro'  Ayres  and  I  will  circulate  round  and  get 
some  of  the  men  together,  and  decide  what  to  do  in  case 
there  should  be  trouble.  Don't  you  be  anxious.  We'll  or- 
ganize so's  to  keep  everything  under  strict  surveillance, 
from  the  road  outside  to  the  furthermost  back  tent.  At  the 
first  hint  of  any  disturbance  we'll  be  ready  to  deal  with  it." 

It  is  never  easy  to  gainsay  assurance  and  commonsense. 
The  Reverend  Truitt  was  in  the  minority. 

"Yes,  of  course  we  will — I  said  I  would  in  the  first  place," 
said  Leonidas  Ayres,  puffing  with  importance.  And  the 
preacher,  over-ruled,  left  the  tent,  followed  by  the  two 
others. 

Having  kept  silence  under  male  domination,  now  that  it 
was  removed  the  women  promptly  crisped  and  fluttered  and 
exclaimed.  In  the  background  the  girls  caught  hands  and 
thrilled.  They  also  darted  watchful  eyes  past  their  elders 
out  toward  the  preaching  square.  It  was  time  for  the  young 
men  to  appear,  their  escorts  for  evening  service.  Each  one 
of  them  had  an  engagement  and  expected  a  suitor,  even 
plain  little  Esther  Dawson,  for  Hance  Wright,  who  would 
presently  come  for  Annie,  had  said  that  he  would  bring  his 
cousin  Ben  from  Snow  Hill  with  him,  and  that  Ben  hadn't 
got  a  girl.  It  was  tacitly  understood,  therefore,  that  he 
would  accompany  Esther,  while  Hance  paired  off  with  An- 
nie. Dan  Fisher  was  to  come  for  Rena,  and  John  Henry 
Hyde  would  as  usual  be  waiting  on  Louellen. 

Even  while  they  watched  for  them,  these  more  regular 
and  godly  youths  were  almost  forgotten  in  the  prospect 
of  the  presence  of  the  county's  band  of  hard-drinking,  hard- 
riding,  card-playing,  fox-hunting,  blasphemous,  irreligious 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  33 

rips,  young  bloods  whose  chief  distinction  was  hilarious 
deviltry. 

"My  goodness  gracious,"  shrilled  Miss  Becca,  her  black 
eyes  a-glitter,  her  false  front  rakishly  askew,  "I  don't  know 
where  I'm  going  to  sit  to-night.  They'll  maybe  ride  their 
horses  right  up  to  the  preacher's  stand.  That's  what  they 
did  down  at  Wye.  It'll  give  me  a  heart  spell — "  but  she 
was  not  displeased  at  the  prospect. 

"You  come  with  me,  Miss  Becca,"  said  Mrs.  West.  "We'll 
sit  close  to  one  of  the  trees,  and  if  anything  goes  on  you  can 
get  round  behind  it.  I  never  yet  saw  a  horse  that  could 
ride  over  a  tree."  She  smiled  as  she  said  it.  She,  too,  de- 
spite her  staid  voice  and  plain  dress  and  her  position  as  wife 
to  Amos  West,  that  good  man  and  deacon  of  the  church, 
was  still  enough  of  Eve's  daughter  to  welcome  the  serpent. 

"D'you  reckon  they'll  bring  their  pistols,  Mis'  West?" 
asked  Rena,  pressing  forward.  Miss  Becca  gave  a  faint 
scream  at  the  bare  idea. 

"Law  no,  Rena,"  said  Mrs.  West,  "and  if  they  do  they'll 
only  pop  'em  off  in  the  air.  They  don't  aim  to  hurt  a  soul. 
It's  just  wildness." 

A  hard-faced  little  woman  in  severe  black  mitts,  who  had 
kept  silence  so  far,  took  up  this  word.  "I  never  expected 
to  hear  you  excuse  and  condone  such  sinfulness,  Sister 
West,"  she  pounced.  "Those  rascals  ought  to  be  jailed  every 
one,  I  say.  And  they're  all  headed  straight  for  perdition." 

Mrs.  West  stooped  and  pulled  her  bonnet  box  from  under 
the  bed,  took  therefrom  a  plain  bonnet  trimmed  with  a 
bunch  of  quivering  bugles,  unrolled  and  tied  the  strings 
tight  under  her  chin  before  she  answered.  "There's  a  wide 
difference  between  wildness  and  wickedness,  Sister  Truitt," 
she  said  at  last,  "and  I've  lived  to  see  many  a  sporting  young 
fellow  settle  down  and  be  as  good  and  as  lib'ral  a  church 
member  as  any.  We  got  no  call  to  condemn  too  free.  Some- 
times it  comes  too  close  home  for  comfort."  This  was  a 
sure  shot,  for  Sister  Truitt's  only  brother  was  known  to 
have  been  a  reveller  in  his  youth. 


34  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

There  was  silence  after  this  retort,  but  Miss  Becca's 
triple  chins  quivered  with  suppressed  glee.  "Now,"  said 
Mrs.  West,  "I  guess  we're  ready.  When  you  girls  leave, 
I  want  you,  Louellen,  to  put  out  the  big  lamp  and  turn 
down  the  little  one  and  set  it  on  the  stand  there.  Don't  be 
late  and  don't  set  too  far  back.  You  know  your  Pa  don't 
like  it." 

They  watched  the  elders  depart,  Miss  Becca  rolling  along 
like  a  gay  balloon  between  two  dark  supports.  "Mis' 
Truitt'll  think  twice  before  she  snaps  up  your  mother  soon 
again,"  giggled  Rena.  "I  was  so  tickled  I  almost  laughed 
right  out.  She  looked  like  she'd  tasted  the  vinegar  jug." 

"So'd  I,"  chimed  in  Annie.  "Serves  her  right.  I  saw 
her  cutting  her  eye  at  your  cherry  ribbon,  Rena,  and  I'll 
bet  she  was  just  dying  to  say  something  about  worldly  gew- 
gaws and  vanity.  I  kept  my  hand  up  over  mine.  Oh — 
here  come  Hance  and  his  cousin." 

Two  youths  approached,  awkwardly,  but  with  determina- 
tion. They  verged  on  the  dandy  with  their  tight  panta- 
loons, their  fancy  cashmere  vests,  their  flat  scarves  of  shot 
silk,  their  straw  sailors  with  striped  ribbon  bands.  Hance 
was  clean  shaven,  but  the  other  had  incipient  whiskers,  a 
manly  red  fuzz  that  fringed  a  face  so  young  as  to  be  al- 
most cherubic. 

They  stopped  before  the  West  tent.  Introductions  were 
got  through,  and  then  there  was  an  uncertain  pause.  Lou- 
ellen, feeling  their  bashfulness,  took  them  in  hand.  "You 
go  on,  you  four,"  she  said.  "There's  such  a  crowd  you'll 
not  get  good  seats  if  you  don't.  Sit  over  at  the  other  side 
and  try  to  hold  places  for  us,  won't  you?" 

This  easy  arrangement  sent  them  off  at  once,  Annie  with 
her  fingertips  on  Hance's  stiffly  crooked  arm,  Esther  snug- 
gling up  determinedly  to  Ben.  Esther  did  not  often  have 
a  beau,  and  her  shyness  could  not  prevent  her  from  making 
the  most  of  such  a  chance. 

"Esther  certainly  is  man-crazy,"  pronounced  Rena.  "Look 
at  her.  Oh  my,  there  goes  the  second  bell.  What  ever  has 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  35 

become  of  Dan!  I  don't  want  to  be  scrooged  up  next  to 
some  fat  woman  with  a  slobbering  baby.  My,  what  a 
crowd!  They  say  the  Presiding  Elder's  going  to  preach 
his  hell-fire  sermon  to-night,  and  that  always  draws  people. 
Oh,  Lou — do  you  believe  they're  coming?  The  Kemp 
crowd,  I  mean." 

"I  don't  suppose  so.  I  think  it's  just  talk,"  said  Lou- 
ellen,  and  turned  away  her  face.  "Here's  Dan." 

Rena  was  instantly  coquettish,  bridling,  smiling,  pouting. 
"My  goodness,  but  you  do  keep  a  person  waiting !  I  had  a 
good  mind  to  go  on  without  you." 

"I  was  out  posting  men  round  the  grounds,"  said  Dan 
importantly.  "Mr.  Ayres  asked  me  to  help  him  out  a  little. 
Louellen,  you  going  with  us?" 

"No,  thank  you.    John  Henry's  coming  for  me." 

"He'll  be  long  pretty  soon — he's  out  with  Mr.  Ayres,  too. 
We  got  watchers  way  down  the  road." 

"D'you  really  believe  they're  coming?"  inquired  Rena, 
stepping  off  the  tent  floor  beside  Dan.  Louellen  leaned 
to  hear  his  answer  as  the  two  edged  their  way  into  the  now 
crowded  promenade. 

"I  shouldn't  be  surprised.  They  been  drinking  and  holler- 
ing all  day.  People  that  come  past  Kemps'  say  they  could 
hear  them  out  to  the  road,  and  you  know  when  they  once 
get  started  they  don't  stop.  Gid — and  Joe — and  Mart — and 
Zeb  Williams — "  They  passed  out  of  earshot. 

Louellen  drew  back  and  with  the  movement  retired  into 
the  fastnesses  of  her  own  troubled  thoughts.  Mechanically 
she  put  out  the  big  lamp,  turned  down  the  little  one  and  set 
it  on  the  stand.  Then  she  sat  down  again,  her  eyes  fixed 
absently  on  the  scene  before  her.  The  summer  night  had 
closed  over  the  camp-ground,  deep  blue,  mysterious,  im- 
penetrable, warm  with  desire,  dark  with  a  pagan  beauty 
that  pressed  down  the  flare  of  the  pineknots,  muffled  and 
veiled  the  mounting  voices  as  they  essayed  the  hymn,  frus- 
trated in  the  hearts  of  the  crowd  the  desire  to  center  them- 
selves luxuriously  on  sin  and  repentance,  troubled  them 


36  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

with  vague  unsettling  nerves,  oppressed  them  with  their 
powerlessness.  Even  in  the  thickest  of  the  crowd  there 
was  no  peace,  no  serene  devout  attention.  People  kept 
glancing  over  their  shoulders,  shifting,  restless.  They 
thought  it  was  the  impending  raid,  but  it  was  not.  It  was 
Nature,  taking  toll  of  their  emotions,  without  haste,  with- 
out shame,  laughing  at  them,  mocking  them,  not  unkindly, 
but  as  if  they  were  small  foolish  children  to  be  played  with 
and  disregarded.  The  eddying  smoke  of  the  light-wood 
might  have  been  fumes  from  little  secret  altars  dedicated 
to  Pan,  so  fragrantly,  so  troublingly,  it  wreathed  amongst 
them.  The  yearning  slow  harmonies  of  the  sacred  song 
might  have  been  a  chant  raised  to  propitiate  and  supplicate 
Demeter  or  Diana. 

To  Louellen,  listening,  seeing,  feeling,  with  senses  made 
keen  by  the  past  two  weeks  of  waiting,  the  night's  withheld, 
yet  promised  mysteries,  were  weight  to  the  heart.  Dan 
Fisher  had  said  Mart's  name  as  one  of  those  who  had  been 
rioting  at  the  Kemps'.  But  she  would  not  believe  it.  It 
was  impossible.  Still,  the  careless  surety  with  which  that 
name  had  been  spoken  opened  a  rift  of  doubt. 

Hardily,  she  forced  herself  to  stare  into  this  rift,  to  com- 
pass all  its  depth.  If  Mart  had  done  this  thing,  if  he  was 
really  loosed  again  in  another  of  his  meaningless  wanton 
follies,  she  was  through.  She  had  said  it,  and  she  would 
keep  her  word,  no  matter  what  it  cost  her.  And  that  meant 
that  she  must  marry  John  Henry  Hyde.  It  would  not  be 
possible  to  deny  him  any  longer.  For  she  knew  that  only 
by  her  marriage  to  another  could  she  finally  close  the  door 
to  Mart. 

And  now  she  thought  of  John  Henry.  How  little  she 
knew  him,  how  different  he  was  from  all  the  people  of  her 
ken !  Six  years  ago  he  had  appeared  in  the  neighborhood, 
a  close-mouthed,  dark  youth,  well  supplied  with  money  just 
inherited,  and  after  a  prolonged  investigation  he  had  driven 
a  hard  bargain  for  the  old  Temple  farm  next  to  the  Bladen 
place.  He  had  imported  an  angular,  restlessly  energetic 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  37 

Aunt  Lena  from  amongst  his  kin  back  in  York  State,  as 
they  called  it,  as  housekeeper  for  him,  and  had  at  once 
taken  his  place  amongst  the  Methodist  congregation  with 
a  seriousness  and  a  narrow-minded  fervor  of  piety  that 
delighted  many  of  the  elders,  and  Amos  West  in  particular. 
There  was  a  curious  affinity  between  the  two  men,  and 
Amos  West  lost  no  time  in  bringing  him  into  his  home  as 
a  guest  for  dinner.  There  he  had  seen  Louellen,  still  with 
short  skirts  and  long  braids,  and  he  had  made  up  his  mind 
to  marry  her. 

He  followed  a  narrow  path,  John  Henry,  with  his  farm 
which  he  tilled  amazingly  well,  his  church  which  he  served 
with  a  bigoted  devotion,  and 'his  intent  craving  for  this  one 
woman,  biding  his  time  restlessly  until  she  would  be  old 
enough  to  be  won. 

It  had  been  flattering  to  Louellen,  at  first,  but  as  she 
matured,  she  had  not  liked  him  so  well.  He  was  too  as- 
sured, too  much  the  owner.  And  there  was  something  else. 
Of  late,  as  she  had  turned  toward  Mart,  and  John  Henry 
had  insensibly  felt  her  recede  from  him,  he  had  grown 
more  importunate.  His  hard  eagerness,  the  avid  clutch 
of  his  hands  toward  her  repelled  her  as  something  physically 
not  to  be  borne.  She  hated  to  have  him  breathe  hard  and 
break  into  feverish  sweat  at  her  nearness.  Something  es- 
sentially virginal  in  her  shrank  from  his  controlled  yet 
obvious  passion.  And  he  never  joked  and  he  never  laughed. 
While  Mart  .  .  . 

Always  she  came  back  to  Mart.  How  different,  how  gay, 
how  utterly  irresponsible  and  persuasive  he  was!  Her 
drooping  mouth  lifted  just  to  think  of  him.  How  easily, 
how  carelessly,  how  wheedlingly  he  had  tempted  her  to  go 
against  her  father's  will !  Remembered  scraps  of  talk  came 
back  to  her.  "Of  course  you'll  come  down  to  the  beech  and 
meet  me — you  wouldn't  let  me  linger  alone  down  there  and 
die  of  a  broken  heart — and  maybe  catch  cold,  too."  .  .  . 
"Let's  have  our  fun  first  and  work  afterward,  if  there's 
any  time  left"  .  .  .  Mart,  to  whom  no  man  was  bad  unless 


38  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

he  abused  his  horses  or  his  dogs.  Mart,  who  thought  that 
to  sit  in  church  was  a  pitiful  waste  of  a  sunshiny  day  or  a 
silver  moonlit  night.  Mart,  as  he  had  looked  at  her  at  their 
last  meeting,  more  serious  than  she  had  ever  seen  him,  oddly 
uncertain,  appealing. 

Why,  why,  she  wondered  with  sudden  vehemence,  had 
she  been  fool  enough  to  make  him  promise!  Why  hadn't 
she  trusted  him,  gone  with  him,  and  tasted  adventure  fear- 
lessly! And  yet — there  was  the  memory  of  poor  draggled 
Tillie  Kemp,  sallow  and  scared  and  afraid  to  call  her  soul 
her  own.  Five  years  ago  she  had  run  away  with  Joe  Kemp, 
then  a  dashing  blade,  now  a  settled  worthless  rowdy.  Her 
subsequent  misery  was  accepted  by  herself  and  the  com- 
munity as  final,  and  as  just.  Even  Jane  West  had  said: 
"She's  made  her  bed  and  now  she  must  lie  in  it." 

So  her  warm  impulse  toward  Mart  ebbed  away.  But  she 
could  not  believe  that  he  had  gone  against  his  promise  to 
her.  Even  if  the  Kemp  boys  and  their  gang  had  been  drink- 
ing all  day  and  were  working  up  to  one  of  their  wanton 
raids  on  the  camp-meeting,  it  didn't  necessarily  follow  that 
Mart  was  with  them.  She  painstakingly  went  back  over 
the  evidence.  Mart  had  been  mentioned  only  twice,  once 
by  Bro'  Ayres,  and  then  only  as  Ches  Layton's  cousin,  and 
Ches  had  scouted  the  idea  of  any  raid.  But  Dan  Fisher 
had  said,  clearly,  that  he  was  at  the  Kemps',  and  drinking, 
and  Dan  had  no  malice  against  Mart,  was,  in  fact,  his 
friend,  would  not  lie  about  him.  Even  in  Bro'  Ayres'  state- 
ment that  it  was  John  Henry  who  had  got  the  news  that 
the  raid  was  on  from  some  one  who  had  driven  in  from 
the  Cross  Roads,  there  was  no  particular  mention  of  Mart, 
and  if  any  one  would  try  to  bring  Mart's  name  into  it,  fairly 
or  unfairly,  it  would  be  John  Henry. 

So  all  the  connections  were  vague,  tenuous.  And  yet — 
and  yet  a  cold  premonition  lay  on  her  spirit.  If  Mart  should 
do  this  thing  it  could  only  mean  that  he  did  not  love  her, 
did  not  want  her  as  much  as  he  wanted  drink  and  deviltry. 
She  gripped  her  hands  together,  bereft,  forlorn,  and  prayed 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  39 

that  it  might  not  be  true,  prayed  to  keep  her  faith  in  her 
(over,  to  keep  his  love  for  her.  She  could  not  bear  it  if  he 
^id  not  love  her,  and  did  not  keep  his  word.  The  thought 
of  his  bright  beauty,  his  laughter,  his  eyes  that  drew  and 
held  her, — she  prayed  that  they  might  be  hers,  incoher- 
ently, achingly,  shamelessly,  casting  away  all  shame.  She 
tried  to  put  her  will  that  Mart  should  not  leave  her  and 
break  her  heart  between  him  and  his  riotous  desires.  She 
sent  her  will  out  into  the  darkness  and  tried  to  reach  him, 
to  interpose,  that  she  might  not  suffer  this  irreparable  loss. 
And  all  the  time  she  knew  that  she  was  impotent,  powerless, 
that  she  could  not  touch  him. 


CHAPTER  FOUR 

OUTSIDE,  the  congregation,  compact,  crowded,  had  lis- 
tened, still  with  a  certain  unwonted  restlessness,  to  a  long 
prayer  that  recounted  the  glories  and  pleasures  of  the  Lord's 
service,  especially  as  dispensed  at  this  camp-meeting  of  the 
faithful,  and  besought  a  continuation  of  these  mercies  to 
those  who  deserved  them.  The  devout  had  punctuated  and 
annotated  this  petition  with  unctuous  "A-a-men"  and 
"Glory"  and  one  old  brother  had  offered  an  enthusiastic 
"Praise  the  Lord"  or  two  as  confirmation  of  its  truth. 
Another  hymn  was  now  given  out  and  the  choir  on  the 
platform  raised  it,  a  shrilling  emotional  soprano  in  the  lead. 

"Jesus,  thou  all-redeeming  Lord, 

Thy  blessing  we  implore; 
Open  the  door  to  preach  Thy  word, 
The  great  effectual  door." 

And  John  Henry  Hyde,  tall,  dark,  hurried  from  his  usual 
calm,  stepped  up  into  the  tent.  It  startled  her,  he  came  so 
suddenly  into  the  subdued  light,  he  seemed  so  tall,  so  as- 
sured. 

"I'm  sorry  I'm  late,  Louellen,"  he  began.  "You  ready? 
All  the  others  gone  ?"  Her  mood  took  a  quick  turn,  lighter, 
more  commonplace.  This  tone  of  John  Henry's — why,  it 
was  that  of  a  husband  of  years'  standing.  She  resented  it. 
His  assumptions  were  always  sparks  to  the  resin  of  her 
quick  temper.  To-night  they  were  a  positive  offense. 

"You  needn't  have  come  at  all.  I  could  sit  here  and  hear 
every  word,  distinctly.  I'd  just  as  soon  not  go  out  into  the 
crush." 

It  threw  him  into  instant  confusion,  her  attack.  "But 
you  said  you'd  go  with  me,"  he  cried,  his  assurance  gone. 

40 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  41 

"And  I  waited  for  you,  didn't  I?  We'll  have  an  awful 
time  getting  good  seats  now.  I  asked  Annie  and  Esther  to 
try  to  hold  places  for  us,  but  I  know  they  couldn't  all  this 
time." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  in  vexation  that  somehow  ex- 
plained her  to  herself.  "We  sound  for  all  the  world  like 
Pa  and  Ma  having  an  argument,"  she  thought.  To  end  it, 
she  took  his  arm  and  they  started  out  into  the  crowd.  She 
glanced  up  at  him  and  saw  his  face  clouded  with  disappoint- 
ment, harsh,  sullen.  "I'm  not  going  to  coax  him  round," 
she  told  herself  determinedly.  "He  can  sulk  it  out." 

But  presently  she  repented.  "For  goodness'  sake,  John 
Henry,  don't  look  so  black.  Everybody's  noticing  you." 

"I  don't  know  why  you  want  to  torment  me,"  he  an- 
swered, low  and  fiercely. 

Of  all  the  unreasonableness!  Was  she  to  blame  for  him 
being  late,  she  who  had  waited  for  him  when  she  might 
have  gone  with  the  others?  Torment  him — when  it  was 
he  who  had  tormented  her  and  had  for  a  long  time,  always 
pestering  and  plaguing  her  to  marry  him! 

He  went  on :  "I  wouldn't  have  been  late  but  there's  a 
rumor  out  that  the  Kemp  boys  and  their  lot  are  going  to 
ride  in  and  break  up  the  preaching  and  Bro'  Ayres  got 
some  of  the  men  together  and  organized  'em.  We're  not 
going  to  have  any  rookus  here  like  down  at  Wye.  They 
wa'n't  ready  for  'em  there.  But  we  are.  If  they  come 
they'll  run  right  into  a  trap.  We'll  land  the  whole  lot  in 
jail — that'll  cool  'em  down.  Time  this  country  was  cleared 
of  that  bunch  of  rips  and  rascals."  He  was  fervently  vin- 
dictive, a  righteous  castigator.  He  looked  like  a  hawk 
just  before  it  strikes. 

There  was  no  time  to  say  anything  more.  They  had  found 
a  vacant  space  on  a  side  bench  and  inched  into  it.  The 
hymn  was  over.  The  Presiding  Elder,  a  shrewd,  grim 
apostle,  with  long-stretched  neck,  and  a  wide  thin  flexible 
mouth,  had  risen  beside  the  pulpit  and  was  giving  out  the 
text  of  the  sermon  on  which  his  fame  as  soul-winner  rested. 


42  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

"In  flaming  fire  taking  vengeance  on  them  that  know 
not  God." 

He  rolled  out  the  words  slowly,  tremendously,  and  his 
voice  searched  the  camp-ground.  No  gentle  shepherd  he, 
but  a  rod  of  chastisement  to  the  sinner,  an  angry,  pitiless 
prophet.  The  congregation  became  still  before  him,  their 
restlessness  awed  into  abeyance.  The  pagan  spirit  of  the 
night  retreated  before  this  man's  magnetic  will,  his  op- 
pressive purpose. 

"In  flaming  fire  taking  vengeance  on  them  that  know  not 
God." 

He  repeated  the  text  three  times,  each  time  more  pene- 
tratingly, more  harshly.  He  beat  down  inattention,  indif- 
ference. Even  naughty  little  boys,  wriggling  with  all  the 
irrepressible  muscles  of  immature  growth,  sat  motionless 
and  fixed  round  awed  eyes  on  him,  believing  he  was  aware 
of  each  one  of  them. 

But  Louellen  West  did  not  hear  him,  did  not  heed,  though 
she  too  sat  motionless.  She  turned  so  that  her  arm  would 
not  touch  John  Henry  for  she  could  not  bear  his  nearness. 
He  and  his  kind  to  set  a  trap  for  Mart  Bladen,  to  disgrace 
and  break  him !  And  then  her  heart  burned  against  Mart, 
wanton,  shameless,  laughing  Mart.  Mart,  who  had,  she 
felt  with  growing  certainty,  broken  his  word  and  proved 
that  he  held  her  dearest  wish  but  lightly,  that  the  barrier 
of  her  love  was  too  slight  to  keep  him  from  his  chosen 
pleasures.  If  she  could  only  believe  that  it  was  not  so, 
that  he  was  not  drinking  and  carousing  with  the  Kemps ! 
And  again  she  had  the  strange  wish  that  she  had  not  asked 
him  to  make  the  promise.  If  she  had  not,  she  need  not 
suffer  so. 

A  sudden  weariness  seized  her.  Why  should  she  be  fast 
in  this  ferment  of  men  and  their  desires,  their  yieldings 
and  their  obstinacies,  the  imposition  of  their  wicked  selfish- 
ness—for that  was  all  it  was.  Mart  Bladen's  selfishness  in 
riding  with  the  Kemp  gang — John  Henry's  selfishness  that 
he  was  intent  to  shame  and  hurt  Mart,  because  he  suspected 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  43 

her  tenderness  for  him.  Whilst  between  them  she  bore 
the  buffet  of  their  wills,  the  scourge  of  their  cravings. 

"...  lakes  of  fire,  boundless,  shoreless,  bottomless, 
.  .  .  river  of  fires,  .  .  .  molten,  .  .  .  flowing  forever  in 
endless  scorching  tides  of  flame  .  .  .  engulfing  sinners  .  .  ." 

The  Presiding  Elder's  cruel  glorying  certainty  cast  trem- 
ors of  fear  over  his  hearers,  they  shuddered  in  the  warm 
night. 

"...  repent  .  .  .  repent  .  .  .  the  fiery  vengeance  of  the 
Lord  is  waiting  .  .  .  flaming  .  .  .  burning  pits  of  red-hot 
coals  .  .  .  burning  forever  .  .  .  the  hot  blue  scorch  of  the 
ravenous  tongues  of  flame  flaring  up  ...  the  reek  of  brim- 
stone .  .  .  scarifying,  searing,  shriveling  .  .  .  and  through 
it  all  the  echoing  groans  and  screams  of  sinners'  lost  souls 
in  the  eternal,  untellable  agony  of  punishment  .  .  .  burning 
forever  .  .  .  burning  forever  .  .  .  yet  always  unconsumed, 
because  their  torture  is  eternal,  so  ordained  by  the  offended 
might  and  majesty  of  the  Omnipotent  Jehovah  .  .  .  forever 
damned  because  they  knew  not  God.  .  .  ." 

He  exulted  in  the  promise,  dwelt  upon  its  horrors  with 
gloating  surety.  The  words  hung  in  the  palpitating  air  and 
mingled  with  the  smoke  from  the  lightwood  until  it  seemed 
a  faint  reek  from  the  hell  he  pictured. 

Here  and  there  a  man  hid  his  face  in  his  hands,  girls 
averted  their  eyes,  and  leaned  close  to  their  lovers.  The 
exhorters  behind  the  preacher  looked  round  in  expectation 
of  a  rich  harvest.  When  the  sermon  was  over  and  the  in- 
vitation to  the  mourner's  bench  had  been  given,  these  ex- 
horters would  go  amongst  the  congregation,  inviting,  en- 
couraging the  timid  sinner,  and  inquiring  piercingly,  "Are 
you  saved,  sister?"  "Are  you  saved,  brother?"  "Are  you 
washed  in  the  blood  of  the  Lamb  ?" 

Parson  Truitt  and  some  of  the  older  ministers  listened 
more  critically.  They  had  heard  this  sermon  before,  and 
though  they  knew  its  merits,  they  were  not  tremendously 
moved  thereby.  One  or  two  of  them  knew  it  almost  by 
heart.  Bits  of  it  they  had  appropriated  for  use  from  time 


44  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

to  time  in  their  own  tamer  discourses.  Withal  they  kept 
the  look  of  deep  and  awed  attention,  the  mien  due  to  a 
preacher  of  the  Presiding  Elder's  eminence. 

Suddenly,  in  the  rich  attentive  silence,  attuned  to  the  ring- 
ing discourse  now  approaching  its  climax,  far  away  there 
rose  a  faint  hullabaloo,  a  tramping  of  horses'  feet,  shouts, 
galloping,  ribald  mirth, — strange  obligato  for  this  over- 
whelming solo  of  denunciation.  Nearer,  nearer  it  came, 
the  edge  of  the  congregation  began  to  stir,  to  ruffle,  to  mur- 
mur. Waves  of  exclamation,  of  alarm  eddied  in  through 
the  body  of  worshipers,  and  the  tumult  came  nearer,  nearer, 
unchecked,  unstayed.  Whoopings,  strange,  uncouth,  drunken 
cries,  rallying,  dying,  rising  again,  drummed  through  with 
driven,  pounding  hooves.  Whips  sang  in  the  air  ...  "Right 
through  to  the  preachers,  God  damn  'em !  Go  it,  boys !" 

The  congregation  was  on  its  feet,  turning  with  chaotic 
mass  motions,  a  milling  helpless  herd.  Mothers  caught  their 
babies  to  them,  tried  to  get  out  to  safety,  their  men  fending 
for  them.  The  exhorters  and  the  ministers  stood  helpless, 
twittering  with  fear  and  futile  indignation,  adrift  as  to  nec- 
essary action,  but  the  Presiding  Elder  was  of  better  mettle. 

"Quiet,"  he  called,  his  voice  a  clarion.  "Quiet  .  .  .  Go 
slow!  Women  into  the  tents  or  up  on  the  benches,  and 
stand  still.  Men  form  together  and  meet  these  sons  of 
Belial.  ..." 

At  the  first  intimation  of  the  coming  of  the  rowdies,  John 
Henry  Hyde  had  attempted  to  rally  his  cohorts,  but  in  the 
wild  shifting  buffeting  rush  it  was  impossible.  Louellen, 
who  had  leaped  on  the  bench,  saw  him  caught  in  a  swirl  of 
fighting  panic-stricken  women,  sweating  and  screaming. 
He  waved  his  arms  and  pushed  and  thrust  about,  but  he 
could  not  get  out.  .  .  .  The  staccato  of  revolver  shots  was 
added  to  the  melee,  and  through  the  main  avenue  of  the 
camp  the  invaders  galloped  in  pell-mell,  people  falling, 
crawling,  hurtling  out  of  their  path  as  a  miracle.  Louellen 
leaned  and  looked,  forgetting  to  be  afraid.  She  must  know 
if  Mart  was  there.  Every  other  feeling  was  swallowed  in 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  45 

the  intensity  of  her  seeking.  If  he  was  there  .  .  .  but  he 
could  not  ...  he  could  not  ...  it  would  be  too  cruel.  .  .  . 

"Where's  the  hell-fire  parson?"  shouted  one  raucous  hi- 
larious voice.  "We'll  give  him  a  taste  of  hell-fire.  .  .  ." 
They  charged  through,  over  the  benches  toward  the  preach- 
er's stand,  their  horses  snorting,  rearing,  stumbling. 

And  then,  through  the  strange  dull  murky  light  she  saw 
Mart  Bladen,  as  drunk  as  any  of  them,  shouting,  half- 
standing  in  his  stirrups,  his  revolver  in  one  hand,  his  eyes 
blazing,  but  laughing — rocking  with  his  unquenchable  wild 
laughter!  His  little  roan  mare  was  white  with  dust  and 
lather,  and  he  was  coatless,  hatless,  his  shirt  open  at  the  neck, 
torn,  crazy  mad  with  drink  and  excitement  and  carnival.  It 
was  he  and  no  other.  She  leaned,  and  looked,  her  heart 
beating  with  great  gulping  pauses  that  tore  her  side.  She 
had  known  too  well.  She  had  known. 

The  band  of  rowdies,  having  arrived  at  their  objective, 
seemed  a  little  in  doubt  of  what  they  should  do  next.  The 
preacher's  stand  was  empty,  save  for  the  Presiding  Elder, 
and  he  stood  dauntless,  rather  to  their  admiration.  He 
would  not  reply  to  the  genial  blasphemies  and  profanings 
they  flung  at  him,  or  try  to  speak  above  their  din,  even  in 
rebuke,  but  stood,  arms  folded,  neck  stretched  like  a  vulture, 
watching  for  deliverance. 

And  now  Louellen  saw  that  the  square  was  nearly  clear 
save  for  those  who  like  herself  stood  on  the  benches  near 
to  some  friendly  tree  trunk.  She  saw,  too,  that  the  men 
of  the  camp  were  forming  at  last,  that  they  had  heavy 
cudgels,  that  they  would  close  in.  And  so,  though  he  had 
humiliated  her  love  and  outraged  it,  though  she  loathed 
and  despised  him,  though  he  had  cut  himself  off  from  her 
forever,  she  had  the  impulse  of  the  woman  for  her  man. 
She  leaped  from  her  bench  and  ran  through  the  troop;  she 
seized  Mart  Bladen's  bridle  rein. 

"Look  around,"  she  screamed.    "Look !    They'll  get  you !" 

He  looked  down  and  drunken  laughter  fell  away  from  him. 
He  stretched  his  hand  toward  her,  but  she  ran  back,  evad- 


46  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

ing  him,  and  he  did  not  follow.  Instead,  alert,  the  veil  of 
his  fuddlement  lifting,  he  saw  the  impending  danger  and 
marked  the  way  of  escape. 

"Ho-o/"  he  called.  "Gid!  Matt!  Zeb!  Jere!  Follow  me! 
All  together!" 

They  didn't  understand,  but  they  followed.  Around  the 
preacher's  stand  they  went,  spill  and  pelt,  and  down  the 
back  aisle  toward  the  hinterland  of  darkness  and  scrub 
growth  behind  the  tents.  A  woodsroad  there  would  take 
them  out  to  the  county  highway — Louellen  knew  that.  But 
as  they  retreated  to  safety,  and  the  pursuing  men  ran  after 
them  with  angry,  baffled  cries,  she  dropped  down  on  the 
nearest  bench  and  burst  into  tears  of  heart-break  and  de- 
spair. She  had  saved  him,  but  "I'm  never  going  to  have 
another  happy  day  as  long  as  I  live,"  she  sobbed. 


CHAPTER  FIVE 

IT  was  manifest  that  pursuit  and  capture  were  now  im- 
possible, and  presently  a  semblance  of  order  was  restored. 
The  men  laid  aside  their  rough  weapons,  the  women  pressed 
back  into  the  open  square.  Overturned  and  broken  benches 
were  put  to  rights,  damages  counted.  But  these  were  negli- 
gible. Aside  from  a  few  torn  dresses,  some  bruises,  and  a 
good  bit  of  hysteria  caused  by  fright  and  choler,  there  were 
no  injuries.  The  timid  clergy  once  more  mounted  the  stand 
and  received  the  biting  welcome  of  the  Presiding  Elder: 
"It's  evident  we  have  no  stuff  of  martyrs  here."  He  was 
pinched  with  righteous  anger,  not  only  at  the  profaning 
of  the  sacred  grove,  but  because  the  climax  of  his  sermon 
had  been  spoiled  and  he  had  been  unable  to  retaliate  or 
punish  the  wicked  for  their  disrespectful  gibes  and  jeers. 
But  he  rallied  his  abashed  support.  "We  can't  let  the  forces 
of  darkness  triumph,"  he  declared.  "Ring  the  bell,  and 
we  will  sing  a  hymn  of  thanksgiving  for  deliverance,  and 
dismiss  the  people  in  order  and  decency." 

So  the  bell  was  rung,  and  in  a  highly  electrical  state  what 
was  left  of  the  congregation  settled  down.  Many  of  those 
who  had  driven  in  from  round  about  had  already  scuttled 
out  to  their  buggies  and  surreys,  packed  in  their  tumbled 
families  and  driven  off.  But  the  tenters  remained,  as  did 
many  bolder  souls,  and  these  responded  to  the  summoning 
peal.  The  Presiding  Elder  had  matters  entirely  in  his  own 
hands,  and  Bro'  Truitt  and  his  associates  hung  their  dimin- 
ished heads  in  the  background.  The  faithful  were  com- 
mended for  their  courage  under  trial,  the  sons  of  Beelze- 
bub were  excoriated  and  their  future  state  described  in  bit- 
ter detail.  The  justice  and  majesty  of  the  Creator  were 
extolled,  the  deliverance  of  His  children  from  their  enemies 
this  night  cited  as  proof  of  His  protection.  If  a  faint  note 

47 


48  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

of  criticism  crept  into  the  discourse — as  for  instance  that 
His  enemies  were  hardly  sufficiently  confounded  and  hum- 
bled not  at  all  to  the  satisfaction  of  the  truly  sanctified — 
nevertheless,  wonderful  and  sure  are  His  ways,  and  the 
wages  of  sin  will  certainly,  sooner  or  later,  turn  out  to  be 
death,  a  comforting  assurance  and  sustaining  prop  to  those 
who  see  sinners  escape  from  blows  and  well-deserved  arrest. 
The  Presiding  Elder's  "Amen"  was  echoed  all  over  the 
camp-ground.  His  hearers  rallied  to  the  hymn  as  an  outlet 
for  pent-up  feeling.  Jubilantly,  confidently  they  sang 
Charles  Wesley's  stern  vision  of  judgment  terrors  and  judg- 
ment raptures,  fit  selection  for  the  moment: 

"Lift  your  heads,  ye  friends  of  Jesus, 
Partners  in  his  patience  here:" 

The  Presiding  Elder's  voice  rose  once  more,  in  finality. 

"And  now  to  Thee,  Great  Judge,  King  of  Kings  and 
Lord  of  Lords,  we  commit  our  weak  bodies,  and  our  striv- 
ing souls,  trusting  in  Thy  goodness  and  mercy  unto  ever- 
lasting life.  And  may  the  peace  of  God,  which  passeth  all 
understanding,  and  the  grace  of  our  Lord,  Jesus  Christ, 
and  the  communion  of  the  Holy  Ghost,  rest  upon  and  abide 
with  you  always,  evermore.  Amen." 

An  instant's  reverent  hush,  and  then  the  babble  and  clack 
of  comment,  which  up  until  now  had  necessarily  been  sup- 
pressed, was  flung  to  the  night. 

"I  never  in  all  my  born  days — those  young  rapscallions !" 

"Little  Eddie  was  right  under  the  horses'  feet  but  he  never 
got  a  scratch.  Way  he  hollered  I  thought  he'd  broke  every 
bone  in  his  body." 

"Mis'  Truitt  tore  her  dress  skirt  into  ribbons, — a  good 
black  nunsveiling." 

"I  lost  my  pa'm  leaf  fan  and  my  bonnet  was  hanging  by 
the  strings  when  I  reached  the  tent.  I  never  see  such 
scrouging !" 

"They  ought  to  swear  out  a  warrant.  .  .  ." 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  49 

"It's  a  wonder  to  me  they  didn't  break  their  horses'  legs, 
right  up  in  the  benches  so." 

"Wasn't  the  Presiding  Elder  hopping  mad!  When  he 
looked  round  and  saw  the  others  dropping  off  the  platform 
and  getting  away  I  thought  he's  going  to  pop.  .  .  ." 

"The  county  ought  to  be  made  too  hot  to  hold  such  scala- 
wags. .  .  ." 

"Matt  Kemp  rode  right  by  me,  and  I  could've  put  my 
hand  on  him." 

"Oh,  my!  My  eardrums  like  to  burst  when  they  got  to 
shooting." 

They  nodded  and  palpitated,  denouncing,  severe.  But  it 
had  been  unquestionably  entertaining  and  though  no  one 
ventured  to  say  so,  there  was  unspoken  approval  when  Miss 
Becca  Simpson,  making  sure  that  all  her  ruffles  and  ruches 
were  intact,  announced  shrilly:  "I'm  kind  of  glad  I've 
seen  just  how  they  do  carry  on,  for  once  in  my  life,  though 
I  wouldn't  care  for't  as  a  stiddy  diet." 

The  men,  however,  were  of  stiffer  stuff.  Threats  of 
prosecution  were  freely  made.  The  Presiding  Elder  coun- 
seled it.  "I'll  swear  to  every  one,"  said  John  Henry  Hyde 
in  throes  of  thwarted  rage.  Others  echoed  him.  But  when 
the  Presiding  Elder  had  retired,  Bro'  Ayres  demurred,  ad- 
vocating moderation.  "I  tell  you,  it  won't  do"  he  told 
the  more  militant.  "All  very  well  for  the  Presiding  Elder 
to  say  prosecute, — he  don't  live  here,  and  he  don't  know 
what  a  hornets'  nest  it'd  stir  up.  You  can't  prosecute  that 
gang.  There'd  be  blood  and  bad  feelings  all  over  the  county. 
They're  all  connected,  one  way  or  another,  with  good  people, 
and  come  right  down  to  it,  their  kin  wouldn't  stand  to  see 
'em  jailed.  No, — we  got  to  raise  public  sentiment,  and  get 
some  of  the  repr'sent'tive  men  of  the  neighborhood  to  talk 
to  'em.  Get  their  relatives  to  workin'  on  'em,  too.  If 
we  bull  ahead  and  try  force  we'll  have  a  lot  of  folks  with 
'em,  that's  agin  'em  now." 

"You  didn't  talk  thataway  before  they  come,"  some  one 
reminded  him,  pungently. 


50  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

But  Bro'  Ayres  was  not  abashed.  "I  guess  I  got  enough 
character  to  p'mit  me  to  change  my  mind,  if  I  see  fit,"  he 
retorted.  "I  never  was  one  to  choose  a  rut  when  there  was 
a  good  road  alongside.  Those  boys  ain't  criminals,  they're 
just  young  and  misguided." 

"And  they  all  got  votes,"  added  Miss  Becca,  satirically. 
Laughter  rippled  at  this,  but  Bro'  Ayres  was  unmoved,  and 
in  the  end  carried  his  point. 

"Well,  it's  my  opinion,"  confided  Mrs.  West  to  her 
cronies,  "that  the  men  acted  the  part  of  weak  sisters.  For 
all  their  watchers  and  lookouts  and  organization,  they  let 
'em  slip  right  through  their  fingers,  just  as  usual.  I'll  bet 
the  women  would've  been  quicker  and  really  caught  some  of 
'em.  I  wonder  what's  become  of  my  girls,"  she  added, 
glancing  out  of  the  tent. 

Her  question  was  answered  by  the  appearance  of  Annie 
and  Esther  Dawson  with  their  escorts.  Seeing  the  group 
within  the  tent,  they  settled  down  in  the  square,  an  arrange- 
ment which  satisfied  the  conventions.  Young  folks  were 
permitted  to  stay  outside  a  little  while  after  late  service, 
provided  they  were  within  earshot.  The  shadowy  grove, 
dark  now  save  for  the  lights  from  the  tents,  took  the  place 
of  the  best  parlor. 

Presently  Rena,  too,  came  into  view  with  her  swain  and 
they  arranged  themselves  a  little  way  from  the  others. 
Louellen  had  not  appeared,  but  that  did  not  worry  her 
mother,  for  John  Henry  would  take  care  of  her.  A  good 
many  couples  were  still  lingering  in  the  farther  square, 
immersed  in  the  dimness,  the  dresses  of  the  girls  no  more 
than  detached  clouds  of  pearly  mist,  masculine  white  trou- 
sers and  shirt  bosom  triangles  high  light  markings  beside 
them. 

Louellen  had  not  moved  from  the  place  where  she  had 
retreated  after  warning  Mart.  Her  agony  of  tears  passed 
as  quickly  as  it  had  come,  and  when  a  good  bit  later  John 
Henry  came  anxiously  to  find  her,  she  was  sitting,  dry- 
eyed  and  composed,  her  hands  clasped  in  her  lap,  her  shoul- 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  51 

ders  drooping.  She  did  not  look  up  when  he  sat  down  be~ 
side  her  and  he  thought  she  was  angry  because  he  had  left 
her. 

"I  didn't  mean  to  go  off  like  that,"  he  began,  "so  sudden, 
without  a  word.  But  I  knew  you  were  safe  here  and  had 
sense  enough  not  to  get  mixed  up  in  it.  By  gad,  I  hate 
to  think  they  all  got  away.  Ungodly,  shameless  scoundrels. 
I  told  Bro'  Ay  res  we  ought  to  have  a  stronger  party  sta- 
tioned at  the  back  there,  but  he  wouldn't  take  my  advice. 
For  all  his  talk  he  didn't  want  to  capture  'em,  not  from  the 
first,  and  now  he's  come  out  and  as  good's  admitted  it." 

Still  she  sat  silent.  "Are  you  provoked  because  I  left 
you?"  he  asked.  "Why,  Louellen,  I  couldn't  have  got  you 
through  that  crowd, — you  were  a  lot  better  off  right  here. 
You're  so  sensible.  .  .  ." 

No  matter  how  deeply  she  is  preoccupied  by  a  breaking 
heart,  the  woman  was  never  born  who  does  not  resent  being 
called  sensible.  It  gave  Louellen  an  opening  for  reproaches. 
"I  may  be  sensible,"  she  said,  "but  I  don't  see  that  my 
sense  would  have  got  me  much  if  the  posse  had  closed  in 
and  there'd  been  a  fight  all  around  here.  I'd  have  been 
caught  right  in  it." 

"I  don't  see  that.  You  could  have  slipped  right  round  to 
the  other  side,  walking  on  the  benches.  Why,  I  had  to  go, 
Louellen.  It  was  all  agreed  where  we  were  to  come  to- 
gether, and  when  we'd  formed  to  close  in.  But  we  didn't 
foresee  that  the  crowd  would  wash  around  so,  and  be  so  hard 
to  handle.  That's  why  we  got  held  up.  If  it  hadn't  been  for 
that  we'd've  had  'em  sure,  and  Bro'  Ayres  would've  had  to 
prosecute."  His  voice  was  black  with  morose  disappoint- 
ment. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  expected  the  people  would  do. 
Sit  still  and  let  the  horses  trample  'em  down?  You  should 
have  stopped  'em  before  they  got  into  the  center  of  the 
camp." 

"But  we  couldn't,  I  tell  you,  because  so  many  of  us, 
like  me,  were  caught  trying  to  get  to  our  posts."  He  was 


52  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

exasperated  by  her  iteration,  but  he  still  set  down  her  mood 
to  resentment  of  his  seeming  neglect.  ''Come  now,  Lou- 
ellen,  don't  hold  it  against  me.  I  did  what  was  the  right 
thing." 

"You  always  think  you're  right,"  she  said  coldly, 
don't  see  that  this  time  it  amounted  to  so  much.     You 
didn't  even  get  your  hands  on  one  of  'em  after  all  your  big 
talk." 

"You  sound  as  if  you  were  glad  of  it,"  he  flung  back  at 
her.  "I'll  tell  you  this,  though.  Next  week,  after  the  camp 
breaks  up,  a  dozen  men  with  the  sheriff  at  their  head  is 
going  to  ride  around  and  warn  these  rips  that  this  is  their 
last  time.  One  more  spree  lands  them  in  jail,  no  matter 
whose  kin  they  are  or  what  wires  they  pull.  There's  going 
to  be  law  and  order  through  this  county,  or  they'll  pay 
for  it.  We  know  'em,  every  one." 

"Who  were  they?"  she  challenged.  She  trembled  as  she 
asked  the  question,  but  a  faint  quick  glimmer  of  hope  told 
her  that  perhaps  every  one  did  not  know  that  Mart  was  there 
.  .  .  had  not  seen  him,  as  she  had.  She  wanted  him  spared 
this  public  ignominy,  even  though  he  had  not  spared  her 
love  for  him. 

John  Henry  answered  her  with  unction,  rolling  the  names 
savoringly  on  his  tongue.  "There  was  Matt  and  Joe  Kemp, 
Jere  Willis,  Jim  Thomas,  Zeb  Williams,  Jay  Dodson,  Al 
Hignutt,  Gid  Cummins,  Haney  Griffith  and  Mart  Bladen. 
Every  one  was  recognized  by  a  hundred  people." 

She  was  utterly  still,  vanquished.  The  pronouncement  of 
Mart's  name  and  that  he  had  been  recognized  by  so  many 
finished  it.  Now  he  was  gone  from  her,  hopelessly,  beyond 
her  resolution  to  recall.  She  wondered  if  another  hundred 
people  had  seen  her  run  to  him,  and  warn  him. 

"I  suppose  it  stings  you,"  went  on  John  Henry,  hatefully, 
"that  your  particular  friend  was  'mongst  them.  But  he 
was." 

Something  in  his  voice  told  her  that  the  measure  of  his 
hate  was  also  the  measure  of  his  suffering.  She  felt  that 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  53 

he  was  hurt  and  miserable  and  buffeted,  by  the  same  forces 
that  had  her  at  their  mercy.  Her  anger  and  her  resentment 
against  him  were  transformed  into  a  swift  and  strange 
pity. 

"Oh,"  she  cried,  throwing  out  her  hands  in  hopelessness, 
"why  do  we  sit  here  and  plague  each  other  so  ?  What's  the 
use  of  it?  I  didn't  mean  to  cut  at  you,  John  Henry.  I 
don't  know  what  possessed  me." 

His  answer  was  as  amazing  as  her  own  sudden  turn  of 
feeling.  He  dropped  his  head  against  her  knee  like  a  beaten 
child.  "Don't,  Louellen,"  he  said  brokenly.  "Don't  say 
things  like  that  to  me.  'S'long's  you're  short  with  me,  I 
can  stand  it,  your  not  loving  me.  But  I  can't  stand  your 
being  kind." 

She  had  never  before  realized  him  as  anything  but  in- 
sensitive, adamant,  all-sufficient,  and  in  her  own  great  need 
of  solace  and  tenderness  she  found  his  revelation  of  for- 
lornness  and  need  piteously  touching.  She  put  her  hand  on 
his  head  and  felt  that  he  was  shaken  and  distraught,  dis- 
consolate as  herself,  bewildered  with  emotion.  It  aroused 
in  her  a  curious  kinship  of  the  soul,  where  before  she  had 
been  separate  and  alien  to  him. 

"Don't,  oh,  don't,  don't,"  she  begged. 

"I  can't  help  it,"  he  whispered,  still  childishly.  "I  can't 
help  it.  I've  held  on  and  held  on,  but  I  love  you  too  much. 
I  love  you  so  I'm  past  all  holding  myself.  It's  a  sin  to 
care  so  much  for  any  earthly  creature.  But  I  can't  help 
it,"  he  reiterated  weakly.  "You  drive,  me  past  all  endur- 
ing," he  added  after  a  second's  pause. 

Louellen  took  impulsive,  bitter  resolution.  She  would 
end  this  for  all  of  them,  now,  at  this  moment.  Now  that 
she  knew  Mart  was  incapable  of  truth,  now  that  he  had 
openly  flouted  her  trust  of  him,  shown  her  openly  how  little 
he  cared  to  win  her,  left  her  humiliated,  all  her  love  for  him 
disregarded  and  made  nothing,  she  could  at  least  save  her 
pride,  and  safeguard  herself  from  any  like  mischance,  de- 
cide here  and  now  to  marry  John  Henry.  He  loved  her, 


54  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

and  valued  her.  But  Mart  had  dragged  her  roisterously 
in  the  dust  of  shame. 

"Don't,"  she  said  again.  "I'll  marry  you,  if  that's  what 
you  want." 

But  at  his  gasp  of  incredulous  greedy  joy,  his  violent 
burning  seizure  of  her,  she  felt  her  heart,  already  heavy 
enough,  drop  like  a  plummet  of  lead,  and  her  flesh  go  faint 
and  cold.  She  had  not  reckoned  with  possession.  If  he 
had  been  less  craving,  less  greedy,  given  her  bruised  spirit 
a  refuge  in  tenderness  and  restraint,  understanding,  he 
might  have  won  her  forever  at  this  moment.  But  now  she 
was  in  his  ravenous  embrace,  numb  with  horror  of  what  she 
had  done,  repenting,  but  unable  to  retract;  bound  prisoner. 


CHAPTER  SIX 

MART  BLADEN  opened  sleep-drenched  eyes,  closed  them 
again,  stretched,  rolled  over,  blinked  at  the  familiar  white- 
washed walls  and  maple  chest  of  his  bedroom,  raised  his 
head  and  made  the  diverting  discovery  that  he  had  slept 
the  night  with  his  boots  on.  Successively  he  realized  that 
he  had  on  his  trousers, — and  his  shirt.  What  there  was  left 
of  it.  It  seemed  to  have  suffered. 

"That  dam'  worthless  Ephum,"  he  apostrophized  the  bed 
canopy,  "I've  told  him  a  million  times  not  to  let  me  do  this 
when  I  come  home  blind.  Bet  he  didn't  even  wait  up  to 
stable  Star." 

He  dropped  back  on  his  crumpled  pillow  and  shouted : 
"Ephum!  Ephum!"  and  the  call  was  answered  by  swift 
bare  feet.  A  black  inquiring  guileless  face  looked  in  at 
the  door. 

"Yessah — yessah,  Mars'  Mart.    Heah  Ephum." 

"D'jou  wait  up  for  me  last  night  ?" 

Ephum  projected  himself  into  the  room  and  stood  re- 
vealed in  two  garments  of  blue  cotton,  with  a  red  bandana 
around  his  neck  for  fashion.  He  was  explanatory  but  not 
abashed.  More,  he  rejoiced  at  the  chance  to  indulge  his 
native  loquacity. 

"No  sah, — yessah — dat  is,  didn't  ezac'ly  wait  up,  en  den 
ergain  I  did.  I  set  out  by  de  kitchen  do'  'twell  mos'  day- 
light, en  I  reckon  I  was  fin'ly  ovahcome  by  slumbrousness, 
foh  when  I  wakes  up  wid  de  sun  full  on  mah  face,  dah 
was  Star,  down  by  de  wat'rin'  trough,  all  saddle  en  bridle, 
en  I  peeps  in  heah,  en  heah  you  is,  sleepin'  lak  kingdom 
come.  So  I  ketch  Star  en  stable  her,  en  rub  her  down  good 
en  feed  her  en  she  jus'  as  peart  ez  er  cricket.  But  you  mus' 
a'  been  ridin'  ha'd,  dat  you  is."  Ephum  was  clever  enough 
to  present  the  cared-for  Star  first  to  her  master's  attention. 

55 


56  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

"Yes — I  Was  riding — "  Mart  was  still  scarcely  awake, 
but  he  swung  himself  to  the  side  of  the  bed,  looked  down 
at  his  tattered  disorder.  "You  go  roll  one  of  the  washtubs — 
a  big  one — into  the  back  hall  and  fill  it  up  with  cold  water," 
he  ordered.  "And  hustle." 

"Yessah — but  Sally,  she  usin'  de  washtubs — "  Ephum 
made  no  case,  but  merely  presented  the  fact. 

"Well,  you  empty  one  of  'em  and  do  like  I  tell  you." 

Ephum  hastened  away,  and  Mart  pulled  himself  up  from 
the  bed,  straightened,  raised  his  arms,  and  with  fingertips 
against  the  ceiling,  pulled  out  and  braced  his  supple  muscles. 
His  room  was  part  of  the  old  house  built  by  the  first  Bla- 
den,  with  handhewn  timbers,  deep  window  embrasures  and 
low  ceiling.  After  he  had  limbered  himself  sufficiently  he 
began  to  strip  and  presently  stood  mother  naked,  rubbing 
his  arms,  fighting  off  the  need  of  sleep  that  still  engulfed 
him.  There  was  a  painful  black  bruise  on  his  thigh,  and 
he  laid  a  questioning  finger  on  it. 

"How  in  time  did  I  get  that !"  he  murmured.  As  yet  he 
had  no  very  clear  recollection  of  the  night  before.  But  now, 
as  drowsiness  reluctantly  receded,  he  began  to  remember. 

He  had  ridden  out,  restless,  in  the  forenoon,  but  he  had 
kept  away  from  beaten  paths  and  familiar  haunts  where 
he  would  be  most  apt  to  meet  the  cronies  he  had  forsworn. 
Half  way  down  the  causeway  he  was  overtaken  by  Gid  Cum- 
mins, galloping  carefree  with  a  loose  rein  and  genial  humor. 
He  had  hailed  Mart  with  joy  and  invited  him  to  drop  in  and 
taste  some  very  superior  early  cider,  just  made  from  his 
crop  of  molasses  crabapples. 

Mart  objected.  "I'm  not  aiming  to  get  tight  to-day," 
he  had  laughed,  waving  the  other  off. 

"You  can't  get  tight  on  this  cider,"  Gid  said.  "She  ain't 
even  begun  to  turn.  She's  almost  sickenin'  sweet.  Next 
week,  now,  she'll  be  ra'ring." 

There  had  seemed  to  be  no  valid  reason  why  Mart  should 
shy  at  cider  which  had  not  begun  to  turn.  So  he  had  tasted 
and  the  first  cup  of  its  smooth  sweetness  had  misled  him 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  57 

as  to  its  potency.  They  had  sat  under  the  sycamore  before 
Gid's  house,  and  talked,  and  had  another  cup  of  cider,  and 
then  Gid  had  suggested  that  they  get  a  piece  of  ice  from  his 
ice-house,  and  chill  some  of  it — he  thought  it  might  not 
taste  so  sickenin'  sweet  if  it  was  colder.  So  they  had  swag- 
gered down  the  hill  to  the  ice-house,  invaded  its  dark  coolth, 
hoisted  out  a  great  sawdust-covered  cube  of  ice,  and  set  the 
pitcher  of  cider  on  it,  and  presently  tried  again.  And  again. 
And  again.  When  the  pitcher  was  empty  and  the  ice  largely 
melted,  there  was  no  question  but  they  must  go  over  to 
Kemps'  and  tell  Matt  and  Joe  about  it,  and  Mart  had  for- 
gotten all  about  his  resolution  not  to  get  tight.  By  this 
time  he  was  in  a  state  of  high  and  powerful  exhilaration, 
with  the  whole  world  his  golden  plaything.  The  only  thing 
he  couldn't  understand  was  why  he  had  never  planted  an 
orchard  of  molasses  crabs  for  himself. 

At  the  Kemps'  there  was  the  regular  Sunday  spree  in  full 
swing,  with  Tillie  Kemp  peering  fearfully  from  the  back 
porch,  a  couple  of  scared,  untidy  children  clinging  to  her 
skirts.  The  revelers  had  welcomed  Mart  hilariously,  and 
to  celebrate  his  return  to  the  fold  after  two  weeks  of 
absence  Joe  Kemp  brought  out  some  of  his  five-year-old 
apple-jack,  that  fiery,  heady  brandy  of  the  clearest,  palest 
straw-color,  with  an  aroma  that  holds  all  the  glorified  soul 
of  the  fruit.  They  drank  it  neat.  The  consequence  was 
even  as  had  been  told  at  the  camp-meeting,  whoopings  and 
yellings  that  scandalized  the  passers-by,  terrified  Tillie  into 
momentary  rebellion,  and  culminated  in  the  raid  on  the 
Harmony  camp-ground. 

Mart  pulled  it  all  out  of  his  memory,  bit  by  bit,  up  to 
that  glorious  drunken  ride  through  the  night,  the  funny  way 
that  people  had  squawked  and  run,  Star's  cleverness  and 
sure-footedness  among  the  unsteady  benches,  and  the  more 
careless  horsemanship  of  the  others  in  the  gang.  He  remem- 
bered their  headlong  escape,  through  the  woodsroad  with 
the  low  crowding  tree  branches  lashing  across  them  as  they 
fled.  But  it  was  not  until  he  was  standing  in  the  tub  of 


58  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

cold  water,  and  Ephum,  under  direction,  was  sluicing  him 
down  with  more  of  the  refreshing  flood,  that  he  recalled  Lou- 
ellen. 

He  started  and  winced  as  from  sudden  pain.  "Dat  too 
cole?"  asked  Ephum  with  instant  sympathy. 

"No — no,"  said  Mart,  recovering  himself.  "Go  get  an- 
other bucketful  and  pour  it  over  my  head."  He  stood  still 
in  the  tub  listening  to  Ephum's  flat  hastening  footsteps, 
the  vigorous  creaking  of  the  pump-handle.  The  ensuing 
deluge  vanquished  the  last  of  his  slumber,  and  brought 
back  all  of  his  memory. 

He  stepped  out  of  the  tub,  rubbed  himself  with  the  heavy 
hard  towels  that  he  loved,  brought  up  the  blood  under  his 
fair  skin.  Then  he  went  back  to  his  room  for  clean  clothes. 
"Tell  Sally  to  have  me  my  breakfast  ready  when  I  come 
out,"  he  directed  Ephum,  as  he  went.  But  he  did  not  know 
that  he  had  said  the  words.  He  was  moving  mechanically, 
his  mind  wholly  intent  on  the  picture  of  Louellen,  her  face 
pale  with  distress  and  keen  with  reproach,  running  to  him, 
and  warning  him  that  he  might  be  trapped.  He  didn't  know 
what  had  become  of  her.  She  had  drawn  back  into  the 
obscurity  whence  she  had  come.  But  the  fact  remained. 
Louellen  had  seen  him  drunk  and  on  the  loose.  Louellen 
knew.  And  he  had  promised  her  faithfully,  he  had  SM'orn 
.  .  .  but  there,  he  would  explain.  He  would  tell  her  just 
what  had  happened,  how  he  had  got  into  it  all  unawares, 
and  not  by  intention.  He  would  guarantee  that  this  was 
positively  the  last  time,  that  he  would  never,  never  again 
be  such  a  fool  as  to  touch  cider  when  he  didn't  know  its 
date.  He  formed  arguments,  reasons,  excuses,  and  assured 
himself  that  these  would  be  sufficient.  But  there  was  a 
brackish  doubt  in  his  mind. 

"Judas  Priest !"  he  swore,  as  he  slipped  into  smooth  re- 
freshing linen,  "I'm  the  damnedest  fool!  What'd  I  listen 
to  Gid  for?  And  drink  all  that  swill!" 

Yet  for  the  life  of  him  he  could  not  feel  overwhelmingly 
troubled,  or  even  particularly  repentant,  he  was  too  unac- 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  59 

customed  to  such  emotions.  He  strode  out  to  breakfast,  his 
boot  heels  echoing  jauntily  on  the  bare  boards.  The  carpets 
of  his  mother's  day  had  long  ago  vanished.  His  sisters 
had  carried  off  the  finer  furniture,  but  Mart  was  content 
with  his  scrubbed  floors,  his  whitewash,  his  plain  chests  and 
cupboards  and  tables,  his  uncurtained  windows,  and  his 
ironstone  china.  The  beds  were  comfortable  to  sleep  in. 
And  Sally  was  a  superlative  cook.  These,  after  all,  were 
the  essentials. 

He  ate  crisp,  fried  side-meat,  brown  and  sweet,  from  his 
own  smokehouse,  and  hoe-cakes  made  of  meal  and  salt  and 
water,  patted  flat  by  Sally's  capacious  palms  and  baked  to 
a  delicious  nuttiness  on  a  board  before  the  kitchen  fire- 
place, in  the  old-fashioned  way.  Sally  would  not  use  the 
good  cookstove  that  had  been  his  mother's  pride,  so  what- 
ever she  cooked  had  the  savor  of  the  red  embers,  a  little 
tang  of  wildness  that  came  from  the  heart  of  the  burning 
logs,  hickory,  oak. 

Mart  swam  his  hoe-cakes  in  butter,  washed  them  down 
with  boiled  coffee  that  had  been  cleared  with  whites  of  eggs 
and  into  its  fragrant  black  poured  yellow  cream,  sluggish  in 
its  richness.  There  was  cut  sugar  to  sweeten  it,  and  a  bowl 
of  roasted  Gravensteins,  windfalls,  waited  until  his  appetite 
was  sated  with  the  heavier  food. 

Tall  tulip  trees  close  around  the  house  kept  it  in  as  cool 
a  shade  as  the  sunshine  beyond  was  fiery.  A  fair  day,  hot 
but  not  oppressive,  the  sky  beyond  the  greenness  a  blazing 
steady  ultramarine,  impenetrably  far,  yet  with  a  friendly 
nearness  where  it  lightened  at  the  horizon  and  dropped  be- 
hind the  fringe  of  pine  woods  that  everywhere  made  a 
boundary  for  vision.  Mart,  observing  it,  hastily  planned 
his  course. 

The  camp-meeting  would  break  up  to-day.  The  tenters 
would  load  their  furniture  into  farmwagons  for  their  ser- 
vants to  drive  home  and  they  would  follow  in  buggies  and 
carryalls.  It  would  be  a  leisurely,  unhurried  process,  and 
would  occupy  the  greater  part  of  the  day,  even  for  those 


60  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

who  lived  reasonably  near  the  camp-ground.  And  the  Wests 
were  ten  miles  from  it.  There  would  not  be  the  least  chance 
that  he  could  see  Louellen  to-day,  then.  Possibly  not  to- 
morrow, for  as  likely  as  not  Rena  would  go  home  with  her 
and  stay  a  day  or  so  longer,  so  easy  were  the  ways  of  local 
hospitality.  Yet,  if  he  could  get  word  to  her,  she  might 
slip  off  and  come  down  to  the  beech-tree,  say,  to-morrow. 
He  mused  on  ways  and  means,  but  could  see  nothing  imme- 
diate. He  must  wait,  and  he  hated  waiting. 

And  there  were  certain  persistent  qualms — Louellen  was 
such  a  strict  little  rascal,  she'd  walk  into  him,  he  knew  it. 
But  when  she  saw  how  ashamed  he  was,  how  genuinely 
sorry,  how  this  was  the  last,  the  very  last  time,  and  no  mis- 
take about  it,  it  would  be  all  right.  It  would  have  to  be  all 
right.  He  whistled  as  he  left  the  table,  his  buoyancy  rising. 

"Hi  Betty  Martin,  tiptoe,  tiptoe — 
Hi  Betty  Martin,  tiptoe  fine!" 

Silly  and  Spot  gamboled  round  him  at  the  sound,  as  light 
of  heart  as  he.  Just  for  the  delight  of  his  own  controlled 
body,  he  ran  and  leaped  the  wide  box  hedge  that  made  di- 
vision between  the  front  yard  and  the  back,  disdaining  the 
open  gate.  The  dogs  leaped  after  him,  barking,  ecstatic. 

Ephum  and  Sally  exchanged  pleased  comment  at  the  sight. 

"Frisky  ez  a  two-year-ole !    Ain'  he  de  beatines' !" 

"Sho  is.  Ah  certney  do  lak  to  see  him  all  tune  up  how- 
come-ye-so,  en  so  limber  look  lak  he  made  outen  inja  rub- 
ber. Hark  at  dem  dawgs — ain'  dey  happy?" 

"Dey  all  happy.  Ah'm  glad  he  bus'  loose  ergin.  Tain' 
nachel  f  er  a  gamesome  young  buck  lak  Marse  Mart  ter  pent 
hissef  up  en  live  lak  he  was  Methusalum, — no  sah." 

"Lessee — thishyer's  de  firs'  time  he  been  out  rampagin' 
fer  mighty  nigh  three  weeks.  Ah  doan  neveh  reckerlec 
sech  a  long  spell  er  dry  weddeh  befo'  sence  he  was  knee- 
high." 

They  joined  in  the  rich  loose  laughter  of  the  negro.    They 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  61 

loved  him  and  served  him  with  as  much  devotion  as  was 
compatible  with  the  minimum  of  effort.  They  gauged  him 
with  that  expert  cunning  which  is  the  negro's  best  asset  in 
dealing  with  white  men.  They  were  resilient  to  his  moods, 
easing  him  through  them. 

Mart  went  swinging  on  to  the  stables,  looked  at  Star, 
but  sparing  her,  took  out  another  horse  for  riding  over  the 
farm,  old  Doll,  his  first  mount,  now  saved  for  just  such 
easy  going.  She  nickered  with  the  joy  of  his  presence, 
nuzzled  him  moistly,  glad  of  his  touch,  his  voice. 

"Here's  one  lady  pleased  to  see  me,  anyway,"  he  chuckled, 
rubbing  her  velvet  ears, — and  at  the  sound  Star  stretched 
out  a  jealous  little  head  from  the  adjoining  stall,  so  that  he 
must  go  over  and  pet  her  into  content. 

So  clear,  so  still  was  the  air  that  he  seemed  to  ride  in  a 
vacuum  cupped  in  crystal.  The  faint  dust  raised  by  Doll's 
feet  did  not  rise  to  his  stirrups.  The  sun  beat  on  him  and 
gave  his  brown  hair  some  of  its  gold.  It  was  wonderful 
to  be  alive  and  quick  in  this  living  heat,  to  feel  the  responsive 
horse  beneath  him,  to  see  Silly  and  Spot  ranging  alongside 
with  adoring  eyes  turned  up  to  him,  their  red  tongues  lolling. 
In  the  grass  by  the  lane  shrill  resonant  crickets  played  him 
along  with  their  persistent  fiddles,  and  far  off  he  could  hear 
locusts'  swift,  thin  dry  trill  like  a  hard-shaken  tambourine. 
Yellow  pollen,  pale  and  fragrant,  spilled  on  Doll's  legs  from 
trampled  feathery  grass,  and  there  was  the  pungent  fragrance 
of  bruised  horse-mint,  purple  and  bronze,  coarse-textured,  in 
the  green.  And  above,  and  over  and  through  it  all,  the  hot 
sunshine  of  late  summer,  that  seems  all  tenderness,  serene 
in  its  expended  power,  its  fulfilled  fecundity, — no  more  the 
fervent,  exigent  lover  of  the  spring. 

Mart  Bladen  looked  with  satisfaction  over  his  fields.  His- 
wheat  had  been  heavy,  his  corn  would  be  as  good  as  any  in 
the  county.  He  rode  all  the  way  out  to  the  fence  that  divided 
John  Henry  Hyde's  land  from  his  own,  and  looked  long  at 
the  corn  on  the  other  side.  He  marked  with  jocular  satis- 
faction certain  stalks  on  John  Henry's  side  of  the  fence 


62  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

that  were  warped  and  blemished  with  smut,  while  his  own 
crop  was  clean. 

"  'Taint  neighborly  of  John  Henry,  letting  smut  get  out 
in  his  corn.  Ought  a'  used  more  judgment  with  his  seed," 
he  told  Doll,  who  pricked  her  ears  to  listen,  as  if  she  under- 
stood. 

The  field  hands  were  busy  with  odd  jobs,  grubbing  out  an 
old  orchard,  ditching  the  little  stream  that  watered  his  pas- 
ture, breaking  a  patch  of  new  ground.  He  had  decided  to 
do  these  now  because  other  work  was  slack.  The  fodder 
would  be  ready  for  stripping  next  week,  then  they  would  all 
go  into  that.  His  hay  was  stacked,  his  wheat  was  threshed, 
fanned  and  sacked,  long  since.  With  his  thoughts  still  hark- 
ing back  uneasily  to  Louellen,  he  decided  that  he  would  lay 
off  two  of  the  hands  in  the  afternoon  and  let  them  do  some 
cleaning  up  around  the  house  where  he  had  already  begun 
a  rather  aimless  renovation,  uncertain  as  to  just  what  she 
would  like  to  have  done,  and  not  accustomed  to  the  process 
himself. 

Still — there  was  a  rough  patch  of  high  weeds  and  briers 
back  in  behind  the  old  grape  arbor  that  might  be  mowed 
down  with  the  scythe.  One  man  could  do  that,  and  another 
could  take  the  light  wagon  and  go  over  to  the  sawmill  for 
lumber  to  be  used  in  repairs  for  the  arbor,  for  the  steps, 
for  the  kitchen  lattice  about  the  pump.  This  he  planned, 
then  rode  far  down  the  pasture  to  see  his  young  cattle, 
stamping,  tail-waving  against  the  flies,  in  the  shade.  A 
likely  bunch,  Jersey  blood.  They'd  bring  a  pretty  penny 
in  the  fall.  He  singled  out  one,  a  young  brown  bull,  that 
he  would  keep. 

His  progress  was  easy,  his  face  untroubled,  but  now  and 
then  a  keen  flicker  of  doubt  touched  him.  Louellen  .  .  . 
and  last  night !  He  wished  her  eyes  had  not  looked  so  big 
and  scared  and  shadowy.  He  wished  her  face  had  not  seemed 
so  sharp  with  dismay;  he  wished  that  she  had  said  some- 
thing to  him  besides  the  warning.  It  was  brave  of  her  to 
warn  him. 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  63 

"I  hope  none  of  the  pious  old  tongue-waggers  saw  her," 
he  thought,  glowering.  "They'd  buzz  like  a  nest  of  hornets. 
'Twouldn't  make  old  Amos  West  love  me  any  better  neither." 
Genially  he  invited  God  to  damn  old  Amos  West's  hide- 
bound narrow  notions,  and  all  the  other  old  sour-faces  who 
thought  as  Amos  West  did.  Through  these  suggestions  he 
was  achieving  a  certain  tension.  If  he  could  only  canter 
his  accustomed  way  down  the  river  road  and  find  Louellen 
under  the  beech  tree,  make  his  confession,  sue  for  forgive- 
ness !  But  this  waiting,  this  not  knowing  when  he'd  be  able 
to  see  her — it  got  him.  Louellen  could  be  thundering  hard, 
if  she  wanted.  Not  that  he  didn't  deserve  it,  oh  yes,  he 
ought  to  be  cow-hided  for  being  such  an  eternal  triple 
damned  fool, — but  he  had  no  notion  of  the  mechanics  of 
cause  and  effect,  retribution,  punishment,  for  himself.  The 
faintest  prospect  of  denial  disconcerted,  dismayed  him. 

He  bolstered  his  jangling  nerves  with  the  assurance  that 
Louellen  had  always  come  round  before, — so  she'd  do  it 
again.  Only  .  .  .  why  had  she  looked  at  him  last  night 
from  such  a  weary  distance,  made  him  so  alien  to  her  ?  He 
had  not  been  so  far  gone  in  drink  not  to  feel  that  something 
cataclysmic  had  happened  to  Louellen  in  seeing  him  thus. 

He  sighed  impatiently.  It  hadn't  been  any  fun — real 
fun — stampeding  the  camp-meeting.  Tame.  Stupid.  Flat. 
It  occurred  to  him,  as  it  has  to  many  men  before  him  and 
to  many  since,  that  there  is  a  frightful  lack  of  imagination 
in  jamborees.  It  was  getting  to  be  almost  as  driveling  to  be 
a  sinner  as  to  be  a  saint. 

"I'm  ripe  to  marry  and  settle  down,"  he  decided,  turning 
Doll's  head  at  last  toward  home.  "That's  what's  the  mat- 
ter with  me.  Matt  and  Joe  Kemp  and  the  rest  of  'em  are 
all  right.  O.  K.  boys  and  plenty  of  life,  but  they  keep  at 
this  thing  too  steady.  Once  in  a  while's  enough." 

He  recalled  uneasily  Tillie  Kemp's  scared,  meager  face, 
and  with  an  access  of  mental  qualms  recognized  that  it  had 
something  of  the  same  look  that  Louellen  had  turned  to  him 
as  she  caught  at  his  bridle  rein.  He  drew  the  back  of  his 


64  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

hand  hard  across  his  eyes  to  rub  away  the  gray  accusing 
memory  of  that  look. 

But  it  increased,  it  remained  with  him.  He  ate  his  dinner 
with  slight  appetite,  and  set  impatiently  about  the  direction 
of  the  two  men  he  had  taken  from  the  fields.  One  rattled 
away  in  the  light  wagon,  bound  for  the  sawmill,  and  the 
regular  swish-ish  and  swoop  of  the  other's  scythe  could  pres- 
ently be  heard  in  the  indicated  thicket.  Mart  ranged  about, 
restless.  At  last  he  took  hammer  and  nails,  and  set  himself 
to  futile  but  time-filling  tinkering.  There  was  a  certain 
relief  in  pounding  nails. 

Presently  he  was  summoned  by  Sally :  "Somebody  ridin' 
in,"  she  announced,  importantly.  "Maybe  it's  supper  com- 
pany." She  did  not  go  back  to  the  house,  but  headed  toward 
the  barn,  as  was  customary.  She  would  catch  and  kill  a 
pair  of  chickens  for  supper  on  the  mere  chance  of  a  guest. 
If  the  guests  did  not  stay,  she  and  Ephum  would,  never- 
theless, have  a  special  meal.  So  ran  Sally's  perfectly  logical 
reasoning. 

When  Mart  reached  the  house  a  buggy  had  just  stopped 
by  the  horse  block,  and  he  hailed  the  man  and  girl  in  it 
with  unfeigned  pleasure. 

"Ches'  and  Delia!  You're  a  sight  for  sore  eyes.  Light 
and  come  in,  both  of  you.  Golly,  but  I'm  thankful  to  have 
an  excuse  to  stop  working." 

Delia  Layton,  slender  and  active,  jumped  out  of  the  buggy, 
laughing  nervously.  She  had  the  wide  appealing  eyes  and 
drooping  lips  of  the  very  sensitive,  and  she  was  spoiled  and 
apt  to  be  petulant  if  her  will  was  crossed.  The  local  judg- 
ment of  Delia  Layton  was  that  her  father  and  mother  had 
babied  her  so  much  that  she  couldn't  stand  it  not  to  be 
humored  in  every  whim.  She  had  been  a  delicate  child, 
ten  years  younger  than  her  last  robust  brother,  and  it  was 
true  that  the  whole  family  had  united  to  spoil  and  pet  her. 

"I  reckon  you  weren't  working  so  hard,"  she  said,  follow- 
ing Mart  up  to  the  chairs  on  the  front  porch.  Ches,  after 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  65 

tying  the  horse,  joined  them,  a  stocky,  square,  good-hu- 
mored man,  as  slow  and  steady  as  Delia  was  elusive  and 
active. 

"Quite  some  rig  you  and  the  Kemp  boys  and  the  rest  of 
y*  was  running  last  night,"  he  said  humorously. 

"We  were  blind,"  admitted  Mart,  grinning.  "Were  you 
out  there,  either  of  you  ?" 

"We  were  both  there,"  said  Delia.  "I  got  Ches  to  take 
me  over  right  after  supper,  for  the  evening  meeting.  Oh, 
we  saw  you." 

The  two  men  surveyed  each  other  with  understanding. 
This  was  nothing  to  be  talked  about  before  a  woman. 

"You  cert'ney  do  pull  Ches  around  by  the  ear,  Delia," 
said  Mart,  ignoring  the  last  part  of  her  remarks.  "Every- 
where you  want  to  go  he  has  to  take  you.  I  don't  know 
what  you'll  ever  do  when  you  get  married — you'll  never 
find  a  husband  as  easy-going  as  Ches  is." 

Delia  tossed  her  head.  "Everybody  says  that — but  when 
I  get  married  I  guess  I  can  manage  the  man." 

"  'N  if  you  can't  you'll  be  running  home  asking  buddy 
to  come  help  you,"  teased  Mart. 

"Not  me,"  rumbled  Ches.  "Hands  off  married  folks,  I 
say." 

Mart  flung  back  his  head  and  laughed.  Then,  mindful 
of  hospitality,  he  called  for  Ephum.  When  he  appeared,  at 
his  usual  shuffling  run,  Mart  said:  "Mix  up  a  couple  nice 
frosted  juleps  and  bring  a  glass  of  buttermilk  for  Miss 
Delia.  Unless  you'd  rather  have  shrub.  Sally  made  some 
first-rate  tasting  raspberry  shrub  this  summer.  No  ?  Well, 
the  buttermilk,  then.  And  if  Sally's  got  any  cake " 

"Quite  the  housekeeper,  aren't  you?"  said  Delia,  mock- 
ingly. 

"You  bet  you,"  replied  Mart,  undisturbed.  "I'm  a  reg'ler 
dyed-in-the-wool,  set-in-my-ways  old  bach,  been  keeping 
liberty  hall  so  long,  nobody  to  give  me  any  orders,  or  take 
my  money,  or  sit  up  for  me  when  I  come  home  late." 


66  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

Delia  received  these  strictures  on  the  state  of  marriage 
with  a  slight  sniff.  She  was  ill  at  ease,  restless.  Her  hands 
picked  at  her  dress  and  hat  ribbons. 

Presently  came  Ephum  with  a  tray,  the  juleps,  frosted, 
cold,  with  little  forests  of  crisp  mint  above  the  pale  mist 
of  the  glass ;  the  buttermilk  a  foamy  cream ;  a  plate  of  sand- 
tarts,  pale  brown  discs,  dotted  with  almonds. 

"Drink  hearty,  Ches,"  said  Mart,  lifting  his  glass. 

"Hair  of  the  dog  that  bit  you,"  responded  Ches,  and  his 
good-natured  little  eyes  smiled  knowingly  through  the  mint. 

"Sally  makes  the  best  sand-tarts  I  ever  ate,"  said  Delia, 
with  that  tinge  of  resentment  that  all  women  feel  toward 
the  comforts  of  an  unmarried  man's  establishment.  "I'd 
like  to  get  her  recipe,  but  I  know  she  wouldn't  give  it  to 
me."  She  fidgeted  about,  crumbled  her  cake.  The  piece 
of  news  she  had  brought  fairly  burnt  her  tongue.  She  was 
dying  to  tell  it,  to  see  how  it  would  affect  Mart.  She  could 
refrain  from  it  no  longer.  "So  you're  going  to  have  a  new 
neighbor,"  she  said,  and  the  hand  that  held  the  glass  of 
buttermilk  twitched.  She  watched  him  sharply. 

"That  so — has  Salisbury  sold  his  farm?"  asked  Mart, 
with  interest.  "I  hadn't  heard — didn't  know  he  wanted  to." 

"No — I  mean — on  the  other  side." 

Both  men  were  looking  at  her  with  surprise  now.  She 
was  very  white  and  she  could  hardly  sit  still.  Her  eyes 
were  glazed  with  nervous  tears. 

"Nothing  happened  to  John  Henry,  I  hope,"  said  Mart. 
"I  like  to  have  somebody  pious  next  door  to  kind  of  even 
up  things  along  with  my  back-sliding." 

Delia  made  a  hard  effort  to  control  herself.  She  sat 
straight,  winked  her  eyes  to  drive  back  tears  and  spoke 
louder  than  usual.  "Oh,  then  you  haven't  heard.  You 
didn't  know  he  and  Louellen  West  are  going  to  get  mar- 
ried. Fact.  I  heard  it  before  we  left  the  camp-ground  last 
night.  Seems  they  just  settled  it  and  John  Henry  was  so 
entranced  he  had  to  tell  it  around."  She  paused,  unable  to 
control  her  trembling  lips. 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  67 

There  was  an  embarrassed  silence.  "You  didn't  say  any- 
thing to  me  about  it,"  murmured  Ches,  awkwardly. 

"Didn't  I?"  she  asked  with  bright  innocence.  "That's 
funny — I  meant  to.  But  it  slipped  my  mind  till  just  this 
minute." 

This  was  so  plainly  a  lie  that  Ches  looked  indignant,  but 
the  habit  of  humoring  Delia  was  strong  upon  him  and  he 
did  not  try  to  rebuke  or  refute  her.  Mart  had  not  said 
a  word,  only  sat  a  little  straighter,  and  turned  curiously 
grave.  But  at  last  he  spoke. 

"Well,  now,  that's  real  interesting,"  he  said  slowly.  "Real 
interesting.  I'd  always  kind  of  depended  on  John  Henry 
to  keep  me  in  countenance,  baching  it  right  here  along  side 
of  me,  but  I  s'pose  I'll  have  to  go  it  alone  now." 

Delia  could  not  resist  trying  to  finger  his  emotions.  "She's 
been  real  sly  about  it,  I  should  say,  letting  on  she  didn't 
care  anything  about  him.  I  don't  know  why  anybody's  so 
crazy  about  her,  at  that, — she's  not  pretty,  and  she's  so 
quick-spoken — " 

"I  always  thought  she  was  a  real  pretty  girl,"  said  Ches, 
distressed,  intent  to  save  the  situation.  "I  never  had  no 
use  for  John  Henry.  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  you  were  mis- 
taken, sis, — maybe  you  got  the  news  mixed  up  with  some- 
body else." 

Delia  tossed  her  head.  "Oh,  no,  I  didn't.  But  I'm  sur- 
prised Mart  here  hadn't  heard  it — you  know  we  always 
thought  you  were  kind  of  sweet  on  Louellen,  Mart." 

Mart  got  up,  walked  to  the  porch  rail  and  spat  over  it. 

"I  wasn't  exactly  in  the  right  state  to  hear  all  the  camp 
gossip  when  I  was  out  there  last  night,  Delia,"  he  said,  with 
the  effect  of  lightness,  "so  I  take  it  as  mighty  kind  of  you 
to  hurry  over  here  to-day  and  let  me  know.  Yes, — mighty 
kind  and  cousinly."  He  gazed  at  her,  stony-eyed,  as  from 
a  great  distance. 

He  confused,  frightened  her,  and  she  betrayed  the  motive 
of  it,  the  reason  behind  her  haste  and  her  excitement.  "Oh, 
Mart — I  didn't  want  to  make  you  mad,"  she  cried,  "I  just 


68  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

wanted  you  to  know  she — she  wasn't  worth — what  you 
think  about  her.  She's  two-faced — and  false-hearted — 
and — "  She  burst  into  tears. 

Mart  and  Ches  avoided  each  other's  eyes.  The  avowal 
of  the  girl's  feeling  was  so  open,  so  unmistakable,  that  the 
two  men  could  not  bear  it.  They  felt  that  it  was  not  decent 
of  them  to  see  it. 

"Delia's  not  been  feeling  right  well,"  said  Ches.  "The 
hot  weather  and  all.  She  never  could  stand  hot  weather. 
Come  on,  sis — we  ought  to  get  home — " 

He  took  her  arm,  helped  her  to  rise  and  half -led  her  to 
the  buggy.  Mart  stood  still.  He  knew  Ches  did  not  want 
him  to  speak  or  to  act.  Watching  them,  Delia's  drooping 
slightness,  her  crushed  blue  ruffles,  made  her  seem  like  a 
broken  flower,  or  a  storm-tossed  fallen  butterfly,  and  Mart 
struggled  with  bewildered  pity  and  a  sense  of  shame  for 
her.  He  had  always  known  that  she  liked  him  too  much, 
and  had  instinctively  sheered  away  from  a  feeling  he  could 
not  return.  But  to-day,  it  had  been  so  plain, — and  before 
Ches.  .  .  .  He  shook  his  head.  Women  were  unaccount- 
able creatures.  .  .  . 

But  what  she  had  said  about  Louellen.  .  .  .  He  came  back 
from  his  pity  and  his  bewilderment  with  a  snap,  like  the 
click  of  a  gun-trigger.  She  must  have  heard  something.  It 
pushed  his  apprehension  too  far.  He  could  never  wait 
until  to-morrow  to  know.  In  three  minutes  he  had  gone 
to  the  stables,  chosen  a  wicked  young  horse  that  he  only 
rode  when  he  wanted  to  make  speed,  and  put  the  beast  to 
its  best  gait  for  the  seven-mile  ride  to  Amos  West's  place. 


CHAPTER  SEVEN 

THE  road  was  heavy  sand,  the  seven  miles  unending.  The 
day,  so  full  of  sunshine  in  the  morning,  had  rolled  up  a 
storm  promise,  lowering  and  heavy  with  dim  thunder  at 
the  North.  This  faced  Mart  as  he  rode,  and  its  close  heat, 
its  mutterings,  its  occasional  lightning,  were  prophecies  of 
evil.  It  was  strange  and  bitter  to  him  to  take  this  road 
which  he  had  always  ridden  with  a  light  heart,  and  hurry 
over  it  in  fear  and  acute  misgiving.  All  that  he  had  de- 
lighted in — woods-smell  of  sassafras  and  aromatic  pine, 
flash  of  a  goldfinch  over  a  thistle,  pokeberry  clusters  drip- 
ping rich  purple  blood,  tawny  marsh  lilies  and  cool  fronds 
of  fern,  quivering  jewel-like  bloom  of  touch-me-not, — these 
he  did  not  see.  He  was  riding  with  fear  on  his  crupper 
and  the  strange  weight  drew  him  from  all  else. 

He  would  go  straight  to  Louellen,  demand  an  answer. 
If  Amos  West  was  there  and  tried  to  bar  him,  so  much 
the  worse  for  Amos  West. 

"If  he  crosses  me  I'll  drag  him  out  and  lock  him  in  his 
own  stable  till  I've  had  my  say  and  know  the  truth,"  he 
promised  himself,  and  felt  his  muscles  tighten  pleasantly 
in  anticipation.  "And  if  John  Henry's  round  and  puts  his 
nose  in  I'll  do  as  much  for  him."  His  lips  drew  back  over 
his  teeth.  He  had  a  stout  consciousness  that  he  could  fight 
and  lick  the  world  if  it  would  bring  him  through  to  her. 

He  did  not  take  the  river  road,  but  went  straight  on  his 
way  to  the  house.  There  must  be  no  sneaking  round  by 
back  fences  to-day.  He  was  going  in  at  the  front  door. 

The  West  house  sat  on  a  little  rise  in  the  land,  called  by 
courtesy  a  hill  in  this  hill-less  country,  back  from  the  road, 
as  is  customary  with  Eastern  Shore  farmhouses,  at  the  end 
of  a  long  lane  bordered  with  blackheart  cherries,  set  in  pairs 
like  sentinels.  Beyond  these,  at  each  side,  cornfields.  The 

69 


70  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

house  showed  white  at  the  end  of  the  long  tunnel  of  green, 
a  plain  house,  two  windows  at  each  side  of  a  door  shel- 
tered by  a  small  square  porch,  and  above,  five  windows. 
All  the  shutters  were  bowed  for  coolness  and  shade  and 
this  made  the  house  look  at  him  with  blind  unfriendly  eyes. 
But  the  front  door  was  open,  and  through  it  he  could  see 
into  a  hall,  and  beyond  to  the  back  veranda  that  bordered 
the  ell.  Women's  voices  drifted  out  to  him  as  he  lifted  his 
hand  to  knock  and  he  stood  still.  They  had  come  back 
from  camp,  then. 

".  .  .  take  this  upstairs.  .  .  ."  He  caught  the  words  and 
with  them  Louellen  came  into  the  hall  from  a  side  door 
and  faced  him.  She  was  carrying  a  bandbox  with  gay  pic- 
tures about  it,  in  one  hand,  but  the  other  she  threw  up  be- 
fore her  as  if  to  fend  him  off.  Then  she  came  slowly 
toward  him,  and  he  saw  again  that  fugitive  likeness  to  kicked 
and  spiritless  Tillie  Kemp — a  likeness  of  the  soul,  not  of 
the  flesh.  And  it  hurt  him  so  that  he  could  not  speak, 
only  returned  her  stare  as  if  she  were  a  stranger. 

Then  came  her  voice,  quiet,  almost  flat.    "Well — Mart — " 

He  put  out  his  hands  to  her,  but  she  shook  her  head 
and  drew  back.  He  stepped  into  the  hall  beside  her,  swing- 
ing the  screen  door  shut  behind  him  quietly. 

"I  hear  you're  going  to  marry  John  Henry  Hyde,"  he 
said. 

"Who  told  you?" 

"Seems  he  passed  the  word  to  some  people  last  night  at 
the  camp— and  they  were  riding  by,  and  stopped  in,  and 
told  me.  It's  not  so,  is  it,  Louellen?" 

She  still  looked  at  him  with  that  strange,  quiet  look.  "Yes, 
it's  so.  I  told  him  I  would,  last  night,  after  you — " 

There  was  something  queer  about  the  house,  about  her 
calmness.  It  seemed  to  put  a  spell  on  him.  He  couldn't 
breathe.  But  he  broke  away  from  it. 

"Louellen,  I  was  drunk,  I  was  drunk.  I  didn't  know 
what  I  was  doing — I  never  meant  to  touch  a  drop.  I  just 
got  going,  and  I  couldn't  hardly  recollect,  this  morning, 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  71 

where  I'd  been  or  what  I'd  been  up  to.  Only  I  remembered 
you,  looking  up  at  me,  and  telling  me  to  get  out.  What'd 
you  do  that  for,  Louellen,  if  you  felt  thisaway  about  me? 
Why  didn't  you  let  the  constables  take  me,  take  us  all?" 

"Oh,  I  couldn't  let  'em  do  that !"  broke  from  her  invol- 
untarily. 

"But  that's  not  what  I  come  about.  Louellen,  you  wouldn't 
throw  me  downstairs  just  because  I  broke  out  this  once! 
I'll  never  do  it  again.  You're — you're  not  going  to  hold 
this  against  me,  to  keep  to  what  you  said — "  It  was  too 
monstrous,  too  incredible.  His  confidence  revived.  "Why, 
you're  my  girl,  Louellen,  you  know  it.  I've  sparked  around 
here  and  there,  but  you've  held  me  steady  and  true.  I  never 
asked  any  other  girl  to  marry  me,  nor  ever  will.  I'm  ashamed 
of  last  night — I'm  ashamed  to  think  I  didn't  have  more 
sense  than  to  get  so  much  liquor  aboard,  but  surely,  for 
just  that  once — "  He  was  walking  up  and  down,  talking 
loud,  careless  of  who  heard  him.  The  sense  of  queerness, 
of  something  subtle  and  malign  that  he  could  not  define, 
persisted.  He  did  not  know  it,  but  it  was  the  touch  of  John 
Henry  Hyde  on  Louellen.  But  she  knew,  and  she  could 
only  stand  away  from  him,  the  bandbox  dropped  beside 
her,  and  clench  her  nails  into  the  flesh  of  her  hands. 

"Mart,"  she  said,  "Mart!  You  promised  me  faithfully. 
And  then,  last  night,  you  were  as  drunk  as  the  worst  of  'em. 
So  I  knew, — it  wasn't  any  use — "  She  was  remotely  hos- 
tile, as  though  the  scene  wearied  her  and  she  wished  to  be 
done  with  it.  But  Tillie  Kemp  again  looked  out  of  her 
eyes,  and  abased  him. 

"But  I  keep  telling  you,  it  was  only  this  once,  and  I  got 
into  it  before  I  knew  it.  I  didn't  intend  to.  Louellen, — 
you  won't  forgive  me  ?  What's  got  into  you  ?  What's  back 
of  all  this?  Has  somebody  been  telling  you  lies  about  me?" 

He  changed  his  plea:  "Send  me  away  if  you  want  to, 
but  don't  marry  John  Henry.  I  might  be  able  to  bear  it 
if  you  went  off  to  somebody  who  was  a  better  man  than  I 
am.  But  he's  not.  He's  cold-blooded.  He's  cruel.  He's 


72  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

stingy.  He's  mean.  You  don't  know  him — you  think  be- 
cause he  goes  to  church  and  passes  the  plate  and  don't  take 
any  liquor  or  hell  around  any  that  he's  all  right.  Lou- 
ellen— " 

"It  isn't  any  use  for  you  to  take  on  so.     It's  done." 

He  seized  her  in  his  arms  and  crushed  her  up  to  him, 
pressing  his  heated  young  body  against  her  roughly,  as  if 
to  warm  her  out  of  her  cold  and  enduring  apathy.  "I  won't 
let  you,"  he  said,  his  lips  against  her  cheek,  against  her 
hair,  her  ear.  "It's  our  whole  lives  you're  ruining,  Louellen. 
You're  mine  and  I'll  keep  you.  I'll  never  let  anybody  else 
have  you  as  long  as  I  live.  Say  you  forgive  me — about 
last  night — I'll  never  get  drunk  again,  so  help  me  God. 
Louellen,  sweetness — " 

He  loosed  her  as  suddenly  as  he  had  taken  her,  feeling 
the  hopelessness  of  it.  He  might  have  been  holding  a  dead 
woman.  "There's  something  funny  about  all  this,"  he  said. 
"You  act  like  something  had  changed  you,  somehow.  You 
don't  even  look  the  same.  What've  they  done  to  you, 
honey-love?  Has  your  father  and  mother  been  at  you? 
Did  they  persuade  you?" 

She  wanted  to  call  to  him,  to  shriek  at  him — "You  didn't 
love  me, — you  didn't  love  me !"  but  she  couldn't.  The 
weight  of  the  chains  that  John  Henry  Hyde  had  put  on  her 
stifled  her,  held  back  her  heart  from  its  expression.  She 
could  only  look  at  him  and  shake  her  head.  "It's  not  any- 
thing but  what  I  told  you.  I've  passed  my  word,  and  I'll 
keep  it." 

"But  Louellen,"  he  went  on,  studying  her,  "wasn't  it  so 
what  you  told  me  the  last  time  we  met  down  at  the  beech- 
tree?  Were  you  just  fooling  with  me,  playing  fast  and 
loose,  with  me  and  John  Henry  both,  and  then  finally  mak- 
ing up  your  mind  to  take  him?  Didn't  you  care  anything 
about  me?  Were  you  just  putting  it  on?  God-a-mighty, 
I'd  kill  anybody  who'd  tell  me  such  a  thing  about  you,  and 
now  you  stand  there  all  drawn  into  yourself  and  as  good 
as  admit  it's  so." 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  73 

He  seemed  infinitely  young  to  her  in  his  earnestness,  his 
appealing.  She  had  thought  that  he  did  not  love  her,  that 
he  had  made  light  of  her,  had  broken  his  word  knowingly, 
carelessly, — and  in  the  agony  of  shame  in  which  she  had 
found  herself  she  had  taken  the  wrong  way  out.  But  she 
could  not  retrace  her  steps.  To  break  from  the  corrosive 
passion  of  John  Henry  Hyde  was  more  than  she  had 
strength  for.  She  knew  it.  She  had  trapped  herself.  She 
was  no  longer  free.  Unwittingly,  desperately  unhappy, 
she  had  committed  herself  so  decisively  that  there  was  no 
withdrawal.  Well  .  .  .  she  must  make  it  clear  to  Mart 
.  .  .  and  she  would  not  let  him  know  how  much  she  loved 
him.  That  little  rag  of  silence  she  would  leave  to  cover 
her  pride.  Now  all  she  wanted  was  to  get  him  away,  out 
of  her  sight,  so  that  she  need  not  be  tortured  by  his  pleading. 

"It's  no  use  for  you  to  take  on,  Mart.  I  told  you.  When 
you  rode  in  there  last  night,  drunk  and  dirty  and  wild, 
carrying  on  just  as  bad  as  the  Kemps  and  Gid  and  the  rest 
of  'em,  I  knew  you  didn't  want  to  keep  your  promise  to 
me.  You  said — but  we're  just  going  over  the  same  thing. 
It's  all  settled,  I  tell  you.  I'm  going  to  marry  John  Henry. 
Maybe  he's  not  quite  so  light  and  fancy  as  some — but — " 
She  could  not  go  on.  She  could  not  honestly  defend  John 
Henry  to  Mart.  But  she  had  the  bleak  tight-lipped  look 
of  Amos  West  himself,  and  defied  him  with  it,  covered  with 
it  the  secret  of  her  heart.  Let  him  think  she  had  done  it 
only  because  he  had  broken  his  word.  Then  he  would  never 
suspect  that  she  knew  she  had  loved  him  more  than  he 
loved  her. 

"Louellen — good  Lord — how  can  you  do  it!  I've  loved 
you — I've  been  right  at  your  heels  begging  for  a  kind  word 
or  a  look,  like  I  was  a  little  dog,  for  close  to  two  years — 
you  know — it's  those  damned  religious  notions  of  yours 
that  have  got  you — "  He  broke  off  quickly.  Some  one  was 
coming  toward  them  along  the  back  porch. 

"Company?  .  .  .  Who  is  it?"  asked  Jane  West,  leaning 
and  peering  from  the  light  into  the  darker  hallway.  She 


74  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

came  on  in  to  them.  "Mart  Bidden!  Well,  my  soul  alive !" 
Words  failed  her,  but  the  instinct  to  hospitality  did  not. 
"Won't  you  come  in  and  set  down  ?"  she  asked,  mechanically 
opening  the  parlor  door,  and  looking  from  one  to  the  other 
with  searching  incredulous  eyes. 

"No'm,  thank  you,"  said  Mart.  The  interruption  baffled 
him,  but  he  did  not  propose  to  end  the  moment  thus.  "I 
just  wanted  to  see  Louellen  a  minute.  I  came  in  as  I  was 
riding  by."  He  held  his  ground,  and  there  was  something 
so  utterly  mystifying  about  the  situation,  something  so 
stifling  and  combative  in  the  air,  that  Jane  West  retreated. 

"Oh,—"  she  said.  "Oh— well!"  And  left  them  alone 
again. 

"Louellen,"  he  begged.  "I  can't  go  away  and  leave  things 
all  unsettled  like  this.  Come  down  and  meet  me  at  the 
beech  tree  to-morrow — late." 

"No." 

"Next  day,  then,  or  the  day  after.  I'll  wait  down  there 
every  afternoon  till  you  want  to  see  me.  To-morrow — and 
all  the  week.  I — Louellen — look  here,  honey,  no  matter 
what  you  do  I'll  wait  for  you  till  I  die.  I  know  you're  all 
upset  and  provoked  at  me  now, — but  when  you've  thought 
it  over  a  little  you'll  see  different." 

"No.    I  won't.    It  isn't  any  use." 

He  was  not  used  to  being  checked,  denied.  He  could  not 
feel  the  reality  of  it.  All  this  had  something  the  quality  of 
a  bad  dream,  it  was  as  if  she  did  not  hear  what  he  was 
saying,  that  there  was  some  barrier  between  them  that  he 
could  not  pierce  through. 

"I'll  wait  at  the  beech-tree  to-morrow,"  he  went  on  per- 
suasively, "and  all  week.  Or,  if  you  can't  get  there,  send 
me  word,  by  anybody,  and  I'll  travel  the  longest  and  the 
worst  road  in  the  world  to  reach  you."  He  could  not  be  sure 
that  Jane  West,  though  she  had  so  considerately  removed 
herself  from  sight,  had  likewise  gone  out  of  hearing.  He 
must  go.  He  caught  Louellen's  hand  and  would  have  kissed 
it,  but  she  dragged  it  from  him. 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  75 

"You  go  away,  Mart.  And  stay  away.  I  don't  want  to 
see  you  or  hear  tell  of  you  again.  I  put  my  trust  in  you, 
and  you  broke  your  word,  as  if  I  was  nothing.  I  couldn't 
trust  you  again  even  if  I  wanted  to  and  said  I  would.  I'd 
always  be  afraid  .  .  .  and  watching  .  .  .  and  wonder- 
ing " 

It  was  so  baffling,  so  unfair.  She  was  strengthening  her 
resolution  against  him,  he  could  see  that.  And  there  was 
no  defense. 

"But  it  was  only  that  once,"  he  protested  again,  but  hope- 
lessly, "and  you're  breaking  up  my  life — and  yours,  too — 
just  for  what?  You've  got  no  real  reason  to  back  it  up. 
What's  between  you  and  me  is  bigger'n  any  promise  about 
getting  drunk  or  not — and  you  know  it.  But  you  won't  say 
so.  Oh,  Christ,  no!  You  stand  there  and  don't  hardly 
raise  an  eyelash  and  talk  about  broken  promises  and  forgiv- 
ing and  not  forgiving  like  you  was  God.  Maybe,  in  one  way, 
you  are  God — God's  the  fellow  that  can  damn  you  down  to 
hell,  isn't  He?  Just  as  sure  as  the  two  of  us  stands  here, 
that's  what  you're  doing  to  me.  But  I  tell  you  right  now 
I'd  rather  be  going  to  my  hell  than  to  yours — "  The 
blast  of  anger  choked  back  in  his  throat  at  the  look  she 
turned  on  him,  from  the  depth  of  her  torn  and  tormented 
spirit. 

"Maybe  that's  so.    Good-by,  Mart." 

She  picked  up  the  bandbox  and  went  upstairs,  leaving 
him  standing  alone  in  the  hall.  There  was  nothing  for  him 
to  do  but  go. 


CHAPTER  EIGHT 

"PASSEL  of  gemmen  ridin'  in,"  announced  Sally,  impor- 
tantly. She  had  come  out  of  the  kitchen  to  the  grape  arbor 
where  Mart  was  doggedly  nailing  new  supports  in  place. 
He  had  gone  on  with  these  repairs  because  it  gave  him  some- 
thing to  do,  and  kept  him  at  home  alone.  He  wanted  the 
solitude,  but  he  could  not  have  borne  it  had  it  included  in- 
activity. 

For  three  fair  mornings  he  had  measured  and  sawed  and 
nailed  with  unsparing  energy,  and  the  work  was  nearly  at 
an  end.  In  the  afternoons  he  had  waited  fruitlessly  at  the 
beech  tree,  and  ridden  home  in  a  state  of  depression  each 
day  worse  than  the  last.  He  was  losing  hope.  Only  this 
morning  he  had  debated  with  himself  whether  he  should 
ride  over  again,  or  whether  he  should  try  another  visit  to 
the  house.  Perhaps  he  would  write  her  a  letter.  But  he  was 
unused  to  letter-writing  and  distrusted  it.  He  could  not 
say  what  he  wanted  on  paper.  He  had  come  to  no  decision, 
and  Sally's  announcement  made  a  break.  He  went  impa- 
tiently to  the  house — probably  it  was  the  Kemps,  or  Gid 
Cummins,  come  to  talk  over  the  Sunday  escapade,  and  plan 
for  another.  He  wished  them  all  in  the  bottom  of  the 
river. 

But  it  was  not  his  cronies.  Instead  he  saw  an  unfamiliar 
group  of  men  on  horseback,  and  one  in  a  buggy,  Sheriff 
Stevens,  a  little  bent  man  with  a  game  leg  but  a  fighting 
spirit.  Behind  him  were  Amos  West,  Doctor  Tithelow, 
Henry  Jarrell  and  Robert  Nuttle,  the  latter  two  substantial 
farmers  and  churchmen,  and  James  Boone,  a  local  justice. 
Last  of  all  Leonidas  Ayres,  frankly  uneasy.  He  had  been 
coerced  into  coming,  and  showed  it. 

"Light,  gentlemen,  and  come  in,"  said  Mart  cordially, 
but  his  hand  closed  tight  around  the  hammer  handle.  He 

76 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  77 

had  forgotten  to  drop  the  tool.    He  kept  his  eyes  on  them, 
he  was  cool,  smiling,  unconcerned. 

The  little  sheriff's  face  was  not  unfriendly.  It  would 
have  been  impossible  for  any  one  of  gallantry  himself  to  dis- 
like the  straight  youth  before  them  in  his  clean  linen,  his 
hair  blown  boyishly  over  his  forehead. 

"No,  Mart,  thank  y';  reckon  we  won't  light,"  said  the 
sheriff,  "but  we  dropped  in  to  give  y'  a  word  of  warning. 
No  more  sprees  like  last  Sunday.  It's  going  against  the 
good  name  of  the  county.  Over  in  Kent  and  Talbot  they're 
saying  we're  lawless,  that  we've  not  the  proper  respect  for 
religion,  that  we  can't  control  our  wild  elements.  So  we're 
riding  round  to  them  that  took  part  in  the  affair  over  at 
Harmony  Camp  to  let  'em  know  that  it  don't  go.  Now, 
Mart,  as  one  man  to  another, — ain't  we  in  the  rights  of  it?" 

Mart's  fingers  relaxed  on  the  hammer,  he  came  down  the 
steps,  and  his  smile  was  now  part  relief  and  part  ingra- 
tiating apology.  "I  expect  you  have,  sheriff,"  he  said  blithely. 
"I've  not  been  feeling  none  so  proud  of  myself.  Seems 
like  I  was  old  enough  to've  climbed  fool's  hill  before  this, 
but  looks  like  I  got  to  the  top  of  it  last  Sunday.  I  was 
drunk,  blind, — and  that's  the  whole  of  it." 

Amos  West  leaned  forward  in  his  saddle,  swelling  with 
righteous  wrath:  "Yes,  and  we  ought  by  rights  to  shut 
your  worthless  whisky-soaked  carcass " 

"You  go  plumb  to  hell,"  broke  in  Mart.  "The  sheriff 
can  arrest  me  if  he's  a  mind  to,  but  I'm  not  going  to  be 
jawed  and  slung  dirty  names  at  by  any  three  feet  of  Metho- 
dist whiskers,  not  now,  nor  never." 

Amos  West  would  have  flung  himself  off  his  horse,  but 
Ayres  and  Jarrell  restrained  him,  expostulating.  A  flicker 
of  grim  humor  appeared  on  the  sheriff's  wizened  face  and 
he  winked  an  understanding  eye  at  Mart.  "Hold  up, 
there,"  he  said.  "No  need  you  slinging  mud  either,  seems 
to  me.  And  mind  what  I'm  telling  you,  for  this  warning's 
for  your  own  good,  and  you'll  not  get  off  so  light  the  next 
time." 


78  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

"There  won't  be  no  next  time  for  me,  sheriff,"  said  Mart. 
"I  know  's  well  as  you  do  we  went  too  far.  You  can  count 
on  what  I  say." 

The  sheriff  tightened  his  reins  preparatory  to  turning. 
"Fair  enough,"  he  answered.  "Fair  enough  spoken.  Keep 
to  it  and  you're  all  hunkydory." 

They  rode  down  the  lane,  Amos  West  still  muttering  thun- 
der. Doctor  Tithelow,  at  the  gate,  halted  in  speech  a  mo- 
ment with  the  others  and  then  rode  slowly  back.  He  was 
a  square,  thick  man,  sleepy-eyed,  darkly  ruddy,  with  a  thick 
sardonic  mouth.  Some  day  he  would  be  very  fat.  He  got 
stiffly  off  his  horse,  and  came  up  on  the  porch. 

"Set  down,  Doc,"  said  Mart.  "Seems  right  funny  to  me  to 
see  you  out  as  an  instrument  of  the  godly.  Why  don't  you 
go  on  with  the  rest  of  'em  to  the  Kemps'  and  so  forth?  I 
s'pose  they're  headed  for  the  full  round." 

The  doctor  disposed  himself  in  a  rocking  chair:  "What 
made  you  blatt  out  at  Amos  so  brash  and  unnecessary?" 
he  asked.  "Bad  blood  betwixt  you?" 

Mart  swung  his  feet  lazily  over  the  side  of  his  chair. 
"Not  special, — only  why  couldn't  he  talk  like  a  man,  like 
the  sheriff  did,  instead  of  lambasting  me  with  chunks  of 
the  Old  Testament?  And  what'd  you  come  back  for,  any- 


way 


They  were  old  friends,  these  two,  and  there  was  an  easy 
understanding  between  them.  "Oh,  I  had  a  call  out  this 
way  and  when  the  committee  come  around  and  asked  me 
to  ride  with  'em,  as  a  leading  citizen  and  prominent  man, 
you  understand,  I  thought  I'd  come  along  as  far  as  here. 
I  wanted  to  hear  what  they  said  to  you  and  how  you  took 
it.  I  knew  your  father  and  mother  pretty  well,  Mart.  I 
brought  you  into  the  world — you  were  my  first  local  baby 
case,  and  I  was  scared  to  death  about  you,  for  I  was  green 
as  grass,  just  out  of  Hahneman,  so  I  got  a  particular  in- 
terest in  you.  I  saw  Amos  was  ready  to  vent  his  spleen, 
and  I  didn't  know  what  might  happen  with  a  hot-head  like 
you.  I  thought  I'd  like  to  be  round,  that  was  all." 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  79 

There  was  real  affection,  inarticulate,  but  sweet,  in  the 
words,  though  he  had  said  them  in  his  usual  barking,  rough 
voice,  his  face  staring  without  expression  toward  the  county 
road. 

"That  was  right  kind  of  you,  Doc,"  said  Mart.  "Right 
kind.  I — appreciate  it."  The  Doctor's  speech  was  balm 
to  his  loneliness  and  bewilderment. 

Fell  a  pleasant  silence.  Then  Doctor  Tithelow,  sniffing 
slightly,  cocked  a  questioning  eye:  "Is  that  a  mint-bed  I 
smell  round  here  somewheres?" 

Mart  called  Ephum:  "Doc,  here,  thinks  our  well  water's 
kind  of  brackish,  but  he's  powerful  thirsty.  Better  mix 
him  up  a  julep." 

"Must've  had  a  right  rousing  time  over  at  the  Camp 
Sunday  night  from  all  I  hear,"  said  the  Doctor  presently. 
"Middling." 

"You're  a  pretty  crop  of  young  hellions,  you  are.  It's 
all  right  for  the  Kemps,  and  some  of  the  others, — but  don't 
you  keep  at  it  too  long.  You  can  get  too  much  liquor,  you 
know.  I'm  not  opposed  to  liquor,  by  no  manner  of  means, 
used  with  discretion  and  for  pleasure.  Fact  is,  lots  more 
people  eat  themselves  to  death  than  drink  themselves  to 
death.  But  you,  you  young  fool,  trying  to  swill  all  the 
liquor  in  the  state — it's  hoggish." 

"Now  lookahere,  Doc — I've  not  had  any  of  your  share 
yet—" 

"You  better  not.  Bad  enough  to  have  the  country  going 
straight  to  the  dogs  under  a  black  Republican  President! 
I  couldn't  stand  much  more  trouble.  But  you  ease  up  on 
liquor,  boy,  I  tell  you." 

"It  don't  matter  what  I  do,"  said  Mart,  in  a  sudden  burst 
of  bitterness. 

The  Doctor  conceded  so  much.  "Don't  know  as  it  does, — 
to  anybody  else,  that  is.  But  speaking  as  a  physician,  I'll 
tell  you  flat  that  it'll  make  a  lot  of  difference  to  you,  your- 
self, thirty  years  from  now  whether  you  go  on  loading  up 
on  bellywash,  or  not.  Keep  sound  teeth  and  a  sound  liver, 


80  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

Mart,  and  you  can  laugh  at  the  world  and  go  it  lively  till 
you're  ninety.  But  shucks, — who  ever  listens  to  a  doctor 
unless  he'd  bedrid.  Well,  I  must  be  riding." 

Mart  did  not  want  to  let  him  go.  "I  wish  you'd  stay. 
Stay  to  dinner,  can't  you?  Or  anyway,  set  still  and  have 
another  julep.  Ephum'll  mix  'em  till  his  arm  wears  off, 
and  glad  to." 

"Boy,  what  was  all  that  good  advice  about  drinking  I  was 
just  giving  you?  No,  I  can't  stay.  Wish  I  could.  All 
Brady  Weaver's  young  ones  are  down  with  the  measles, 
and  I  promised  I'd  be  there  before  dinner.  Ride  in  town 
and  eat  supper  with  me  some  time  soon,  Mart.  Viny's  a 
better  hand  with  fried  chicken  than  your  Sally  and  my  mint- 
bed's  just  as  flourishing  as  yours.  Mrs.  Tithelow'll  be 
pleased  to  have  you.  And  so'll  I.  So-long." 

He  rode  off,  slumped  and  slouching,  but  he  left  Mart's 
gloom  a  little  lightened.  "He's  heard — about  Louellen  and 
me,  like  every  one  else,"  thought  Mart,  watching  him  go. 
"And  when  he  saw  Amos  West  in  that  lot  he  come  along 
to  let  me  know  he  was  my  friend.  And  no  hinting  round 
to  get  me  to  tell  him  anything,  either.  I  call  that  right 
kind.  Doc's  a  good  fellow." 


CHAPTER  NINE 

THE  chairs  in  the  Wests'  dining  room  were  hand-made, 
all  wood,  painted  dull  black  and  striped  with  gray  and  gold, 
and  on  back-splat  and  top  cross  piece  stenciled  with  clus- 
ters of  fruit,  magenta,  dark  mauve  and  green.  The  table 
was  plain  brown  walnut  with  turned  legs  heavily  reeded, 
ungraceful  but  substantial.  There  was  a  zinc  square  under 
a  stove  with  a  shining  black  body  and  a  shining  brass  urn 
on  top  and  a  painted  woodbox,  brown. 

A  side  table  with  drop  leaves  was  placed  below  the  South 
window  and  held  a  melange  of  homely  objects,  a  sewing 
basket,  string,  the  weekly  paper,  Sunday  school  leaflets,  a 
bottle  of  ink  and  two  pens.  At  the  end  of  this  table  stood 
a  dressmaker's  cutting  board,  a  yard  stick,  and  a  convenient 
nail  held  a  flat  green  calico  bag  of  paper  patterns,  tied 
with  identifying  scraps  of  the  materials  they  had  helped 
to  shape.  There  were  no  curtains,  only  window  shades 
of  dull  tan  printed  with  a  design  of  brown  and  gold.  There 
was  a  low  cupboard  with  solid  doors,  and  the  only  decora- 
tions on  the  whitewashed  walls  were  a  mirror  with  a 
basketry  holder  for  a  comb  and  brush  underneath  it,  and 
an  old  steel  engraving  of  "The  Battle  of  Waterloo."  A 
hanging  lamp  with  its  white  glass  shade  had  place  over  the 
dining  table. 

For  this  room  was  not  only  the  dining  room,  but  the 
familiar  sitting  and  work  room  of  the  family.  The  real 
sitting  room,  with  its  cane-seated  straight  chairs,  its  two 
patent  rockers  and  the  other  rocker  of  bent  wood,  its  round 
center  table  and  book-case-desk,  its  organ  and  sofa,  was 
not  a  place  for  family  gathering, — it  was  for  company  of 
the  more  informal  sort.  Across  the  hall  the  best  parlor, 
with  a  plush  "suite"  and  an  easeled  picture,  awaited  the  ele- 

81 


82  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

gancies  of  set  entertainments  and  guests  to  whom  notable 
honors  were  due. 

But  in  the  dining  room  the  family  life  went  on.  In  spite 
of  its  plainness  the  room  was  neither  poor  nor  mean,  for 
it  had  order,  cleanliness,  and  a  comfortable  lived-in  quality, 
usual  in  homes  where  life  has  certain  fixed  duties,  and 
-values,  and  where  there  is  simplicity  without  poverty. 

The  dining  room  table  had  been  stripped  bare  and  Jane 
West,  shears  in  hand,  bent  over  a  troubled  sea  of  white  cot- 
ton stuff  and  patterns.  Outside,  on  the  porch,  Louellen 
West  sat  and  sewed  her  wedding  clothes,  with  Annie  help- 
ing. Mrs.  West  cut  out  and  handed  the  segmented  pieces 
to  the  girls.  A  bolt  of  cambric  and  a  bolt  of  muslin  were 
the  first  requisites  of  every  trousseau.  Muslin  might  be 
sewed  on  the  machine,  but  the  cambric  must  be  stitched  and 
whipped  and  eyeleted  and  buttonholed  by  hand.  No  girl 
of  self-respect,  or  any  sensitiveness  to  comment,  could  be 
married  in  anything  but  underwear  she  had  herself  made. 
Miss  Stella  Smith,  who  "sewed  round,"  or  Mrs.  Sidney 
Cline,  the  leading  dressmaker  of  the  county  seat,  would 
undoubtedly  be  called  on  to  make  the  wedding  dress,  and 
the  heavy  black  silk  which  was  the  sign  and  symbol  of  re- 
spectable matronhood,  and  possibly  another  gown  or  two, 
but  it  was  inevitable  that  everything  more  intimate  was 
made  by  the  betrothed  girl.  Young  feminine  friends,  and 
maiden  aunts  sent  yards  of  crocheted  and  knitted  lace  for 
adornment,  and  sometimes  stitched  an  oddment  or  two — a 
fine  white  apron,  or  a  fancy  corset  cover — darted  and  fitted 
like  a  basque — but  that  was  all  the  help  she  had. 

"But  it's  changed  sence  I  was  a  girl,"  commented  Mrs. 
West,  cheerily.  "Then  you  had  to  weave  your  tablecloths 
and  towels,  every  one  of  'em,  and  some  girls  even  spun 
the  flax  for  'em.  And  you  had  to  weave  at  least  one  pair 
blankets,  and  a  coverlet  or  two,  and  make  your  quilts, — 
it  took  an  awful  long  time  to  get  a  setting-out  that  was 
worth  having,  I  can  tell  you,  going  at  it  nip  and  tuck,  too. 
Cousin  Eveline  Moore  was  five  years  getting  ready.  Alec 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  83 

Moore  told  her  at  last  that  if  she  didn't  stop  sewing  and 
weaving  and  buy  her  wedding  dress,  he  was  going  to  get 
another  girl  who  wasn't  so  pa'tic'ler.  He  said  he  wanted 
a  wife,  not  a  store  of  bedclothes  and  linens.  He  was  a 
sight !" 

The  two  girls  had  heard  the  story  of  Cousin  Eveline  Moore 
and  the  impatient  Alec  many  times.  They  disregarded  it. 
Annie  took  up  an  interrupted  plaint. 

"If  you  were  only  going  to  be  married  in  white.  It's 
ridiculous  to  wear  a  dark  wool  dress." 

Louellen  spoke  without  heat  and  without  haste,  as  of 
something  that  did  not  matter :  "That  ashes-of-rose  barege 
will  give  me  good  wear  and  it'll  be  real  pretty." 

Annie  pursed  her  lips.  "You  might  at  least  have  had  a 
silk." 

"I'll  have  my  black  silk." 

"Y-e-s — but  it's  not  the  same.  Listen,  Louellen,  why  don't 
you  have  it  made  with  one  of  the  paneled  fronts  rilled  in 
with  cross  rows  of  lace  ruffles?  That  would  be  sweet. 
You  know — like  the  picture  in  the  Monthly." 

"It's  too  fancy." 

"My  good  land — you're  not  a  million,  are  you  ?  You're  get- 
ting married!  If  that's  not  the  time  to  be  fancy,  when  is?" 

Louellen  did  not  answer.  Her  mother,  who  had  left  off 
cutting  out  and  settled  herself  in  a  slat  rocker  between  her 
daughters,  looked  up  from  the  tucks  she  was  basting,  rather 
humorously:  "I  never  expected  to  see  you  so  sensible," 
she  remarked. 

Louellen  did  not  raise  her  eyes  from  her  work.  She 
was  making  an  embroidered  band  for  a  chemise  top,  an 
elaborate  pattern  of  daisied  eyelets  and  fine  scallops,  and 
she  stabbed  the  material  with  her  stiletto,  twisted  it  care- 
fully and  drew  it  out  before  she  spoke.  She  recalled  that 
John  Henry  had  called  her  sensible  that  last  night  of  camp- 
meeting,  and  the  memory  stirred  her  to  faint  irony. 

"The  prospect  of  matrimony's  quieted  me  down,  you  see, 
Ma." 


84  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

Annie  had  been  looking  through  the  open  doors  of  the 
hall,  for  though  it  was  now  late  September  the  day  was  as 
mellow  as  midsummer. 

"Somebody's  coming,"  she  announced.  "I  do  believe — 
yes — it's  a  pack  peddler.  Oh,  what  fun!  I  do  hope  he's 
got  something  besides  tin." 

The  man  came  on,  watching  anxiously  for  a  possible  hos- 
tile dog.  Skilled  in  the  ways  of  farm  women,  he  did  not 
go  to  the  front  door  but  came  directly  around  to  the  side, 
bending  under  his  oilcloth-covered  rattling  pack.  He  was 
a  Jew,  thin,  dark,  his  black  beard  touched  with  gray,  his 
eyes  ingratiating. 

"Good  afternoon,  ladies,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  was  soft, 
humble.  "I  show  you  my  goots — nice  tin — very,  very  nice 
new  bright  tin." 

He  did  not  wait  for  their  permission,  but  slid  his  burden 
to  the  porch  floor,  unbuckled  it  deftly.  It  was  true — here 
was  much  tin,  winking,  bright,  new.  The  three  women 
gazed  critically,  Annie  getting  up  from  her  chair  to  be 
nearer. 

"I  need  a  dipper,"  said  Mrs.  West.  "There — that  long 
handled  one* — " 

"Let's  get  another  strainer,"  suggested  Annie.  "The  old 
one  won't  hold  out  much  longer.  There's  a  good  one." 

"A  nice  liddle  pan  ?"  asked  the  peddler,  putting  aside  the 
two  pieces  cfiosen,  and  hunting  among  his  stock  for  some- 
thing to  tempt  them  further. 

"M-m-m-m, — I  do  like  a  little  pan  that  size.  If  we'd  get 
two  they'd  be  just  right  for  Sally  Lunn,"  urged  Annie. 

"I  believe  I'll  get  two-three  things  for  you,  too,  Lou- 
ellen,"  said  Mrs.  West,  warming  with  the  buying  impulse.  "I 
s'pose  Aunt  Lena'll  leave  everything  to  do  with  over  at 
John  Henry's,  but  I  expect  you'd  kind  of  enjoy  some  little 
special  things  of  your  own,  wouldn't  you  ?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  care,"  said  Louellen,  stabbing  another  eyelet. 

Her  mother  gave  her  a  speculative  gaze  and  so  did  the 
peddler.  He  was  quick  to  seize  the  hint. 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  85 

"Theze  yong  lady,  she  go  for  to  marry?"  he  asked.  "I 
know — look — "  He  brought  out  a  muffin  pan,  another  dip- 
per, a  cake  pan  with  a  fluted  rim.  "To  cook  for  hosband," 
he  said,  rubbing  his  hands.  Then  he  looked  up  again  at 
the  indifferent  Louellen — and  back  to  Annie.  He  waved 
interrogative  fingers  at  the  younger  girl.  "Is  it  theze  yong 
lady  who  get  married?"  he  asked,  puzzled. 

"No, — that's  the  one,"  said  Mrs.  West,  indicating  Lou- 
ellen. 

The  Jew  stared  at  her  so  sharply  that  at  last  she  raised 
her  eyes  to  meet  his  gaze.  "But  no — she  should  not  marry," 
he  said  at  last,  hurriedly.  "Something  is  not  right,  she  has 
no  happiness." 

The  introduction  of  a  question  of  abstract  emotion  among 
simple  barter  and  sale  had  its  effect  on  all  concerned.  Mrs. 
West  remained  poised  and  keenly  thoughtful,  the  cake  tin 
in  her  hand.  Annie  giggled.  But  Louellen  met  the  Jew's 
eyes  mockingly. 

"What  makes  you  say  that?"  she  asked.  "The  man  I'm 
going  to  marry  has  a  great  big  farm  and  a  lot  of  cattle, 
and  he's  a  good  man,  belongs  to  the  church,  hasn't  got  any 
bad  habits." 

"He  is  old,  then,"  answered  the  Jew  with  cynic  decision. 

"No,  he  isn't.    He's  young." 

"Then  why  are  you  not  happy?" 

"Oh,  but  I  am.     Very  happy." 

He  had,  at  one  side  of  his  pack,  a  wrapped  and  strapped 
parcel,  and  this  he  now  began  to  open.  Oilcloth,  then 
rough  paper,  then  fine  paper,  then  a  twist  of  softest  thin 
linen,  and  at  last  he  brought  out  the  treasure,  a  shawl  of 
white  crepe,  soft  and  heavy,  covered  with  embroidery,  all 
white,  butterflies,  birds  with  long  tails,  flowers  a  hand's 
span  across,  garlands  of  vine  with  reaching,  twisting  ten- 
drils, buds  in  curved  slender  calyxes,  and  all  around  a  drip- 
ping thick  fringe,  knotted  and  tied  with  patient  intricacy, 
inches  deep.  The  Jew  lifted  it  gently,  spread  it  for  them 
to  see,  carefully,  lovingly. 


86  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

"My  soul !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  West.  "I  never  saw  any- 
thing so  sweet-pretty  in  my  life.  Takes  your  breath  away." 
She  and  Annie  dropped  on  their  knees  beside  the  lovely  web, 
touched  it  with  the  lightest,  inquiring,  fondling  fingers, 
marveling.  Louellen  sat  still,  but  she  looked  at  it  wistfully. 

"She  is  from  Spain,"  said  the  Jew,  "and  before  that  from 
China.  I — I  am  from  Spain.  She  has  come  into  my  hands 
and  I  wait  for  a  bride  to  sell  her,  a  yong  bride.  And  fair." 

"How  much  do  you  want  for  it?"  asked  Mrs.  West.  "It 
just  bewitches  me." 

"Me,  too,"  said  Annie.    "Look  at  that  rosebud!" 

"I  ask  but  feefty  dollar.  She  is  wort  much  more.  But 
she  come  to  me  for  liddle,  and  I  let  her  go  for  liddle." 

He  was  watching  Louellen,  but  she  had  picked  up  her 
stiletto  again  and  did  not  move  toward  the  alluring  square. 

Mrs.  West  slipped  her  hands  under  the  shawl  and  stretched 
it  upon  them.  "It's  a  splendid  size,"  she  said  practically. 
"Upon  my  word,  I've  a  great  mind  to  get  it  for  you,  Lou- 
ellen. You  could  wear  it  the  Sunday  you  come  out  a  bride. 
It'd  make  everybody  in  church  set  up  and  stare." 

Then  Louellen  spoke,  with  soft  decision :  "I  don't  want 
it,  Ma.  Get  it  and  save  it  for  Annie  if  you  want  to,  but 
not  me." 

"You're  crazy,  sis,"  cried  Annie.  "That  beauty  thing — 
not  want  it!" 

The  Jew  took  the  shawl  from  Mrs.  West  and  folded  it 
rapidly,  replacing  it  in  its  wrappings.  "That  prove  you  are 
not  happy,"  he  said.  "No  happy  woman  but  would  want  that 
shawl  to  make  glad  the  eyes  of  her  lover.  You  could  have 
it — you  do  not  want  it — you  are  not  happy."  He  finished 
tying  it  in  place.  "Better  have  pan  for  cake,  pan  for  bread, 
liddle  muffin  pan,"  he  went  on.  "Happy  or  not,  everybody 
eat." 

"Yes,"  said  Louellen,  dryly  responsive,  "everybody  eats, 
whether  they're  happy  or  not.  I'd  like  the  cake  pan,  Ma, 
and  the  other  things.  And  that  clever  little  trick  to  turn 
over  griddle  cakes.  And  that  colander.  There — how  much 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  87 

is  that  ?"    She  had  dropped  her  work  now  and  come  to  rum- 
mage in  the  pack  with  the  others. 

"Go  in  the  sitting  room  closet  and  fetch  me  my  purse, 
Annie,"  said  Jane  West.  "How  much  is  it  all?" 

The  purse  was  brought,  the  Jew's  price  named  and  the 
sum  paid.  He  wrapped  up  his  pack  silently,  but  when  it 
was  taut  and  firm  and  he  was  ready  to  slip  the  straps  over 
his  shoulders,  and  bend  his  back  to  its  weight,  he  spoke  once 
more  to  Louellen. 

"Better  not  do  it,"  he  said,  as  if  she  would  understand 
what  he  meant.  "You  think  you  are  strong  enough,  but 
you  are  not.  I  will  soon  be  an  old  man.  I  have  seen  things. 
I  know.  Better  a  little  tears  now,  and  high  words  flying, 
than  the  long,  long  days  of  sorrow  after.  You  are  not 
strong  enough.  I  am  only  a  poor  Jew.  But  I  have  seen. 
I  know." 

He  hitched  the  pack  to  his  back,  caught  up  his  stick  and 
went  away.  "Wasn't  he  funny !"  cried  Annie,  "talking  like 
he'd  known  us  for  years.  A  Jew  pack-peddler — I  almost 
tickled  right  out,  he  was  so  solemn.  Ma,  I  wish  you'd 
bought  that  shawl  for  me  since  Louellen  was  such  a  gump 
not  to  take  it." 

"Annie,"  said  Jane  West,  mildly,  "you  really  ought  to  go 
out  a  while  this  afternoon  and  begin  to  pick  the  dried  lima 
beans.  First  thing  we  know  a  spell  of  wet  weather'll  come 
along  and  they'll  mold.  I  could  send  Rachel  to  help  you 
soon's  she's  through  her  mopping.  Louellen  can't  leave  her 
sewing — and  I'd  like  to  finish  cutting  out  on  that  cambric 
s'afternoon." 

"Oh,  all  right,"  said  Annie.  "Call  me  if  anybody  else 
comes,  won't  you  ?"  She  slipped  away  to  get  her  sunbonnet, 
her  knitted  mitts,  and  basket.  Presently  they  heard  the 
sound  of  her  high  sweet  singing  as  she  went  gardenward. 

"I  sent  Annie  off,  so's  I  could  talk  to  you,  Louellen.  You 
worried  me  the  way  you  answered  that  man,"  began  Jane 
West.  "Fact  is,  I've  never  been  right  down  satisfied  in  my 
mind  about  you  and  John  Henry.  What  with  Mart  Bladen 


88  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

• 

coming  to  see  you,  so  strange,  right  after  you  made  up 
your  mind  about  John  Henry,  and  the  way  you've  acted  ever 

since." 

Louellen  drew  a  long  sigh.  There  had  always  been  a 
good  understanding  between  herself  and  her  mother,  and 
the  present  queries  were  offered  in  no  inquisitorial  maternal 
tone,  but  as  one  friend,  concerned  and  affectionate,  to  an- 
other. Yet, — how  could  she  tell  Jane  West  adequately  of 
the  canker  of  her  spirit,  her  trapped  submission,  and  her 
hopeless  endurance?  How  could  she  confess  that  she  had 
cheapened  herself  forever  in  her  own  eyes  by  offering  Mart 
Bladen  a  bargain  he  had  not  cared  to  keep,  the  stubborn 
fact  that  all  his  protestations  could  not  wipe  away?  No, 
these  things  it  was  her  right  to  conceal,  even  from  kind- 
ness. But  she  must  make  some  response. 

"I  don't  know  what  I  can  tell  you,  Ma,"  she  began,  choos- 
ing her  words.  "I  said  I'd  marry  John  Henry  and  there's 
an  end  to  it.  What  would  happen  if  I  tried  to  go  back  on 
it  now !  Pa'd  drive  me  out  of  the  house." 

"Do  you  want  to  go  back  on  it  ?"  asked  her  mother  search- 
ingly,  "or  are  you  just  notional  ?  You've  got  sense  enough 
to  know  the  difference.  A  good  many  girls  aren't  so  crazy 
about  getting  married.  I  wasn't  myself." 

Louellen  tried  hard  to  visualize  her  mother  young  and 
in  the  same  case  as  herself,  but  it  was  difficult.  This  stout 
brisk  kindly  woman — had  she  ever  lain  awake  at  night  and 
hoped  to  die  before  morning?  Had  those  hands,  so  skilled 
in  sewing,  so  deft  with  butter  prints  and  cheese  molds,  ever 
clenched  on  each  other  in  an  agony  of  rebellion  and  bitterness 
against  life  ?  Had  her  shrewd  placid  eyes  ever  wept  scorch- 
ing tears?  It  all  seemed  unlikely,  yet  the  statement  that 
she  had  not  cared  much  for  marriage  brought  the  daughter 
nearer  to  her. 

"Oh,  I'm  not  sure  which  it  is.  I  know  I  don't  feel  to 
John  Henry  like  he  feels  to  me.  And  it — it — he — "  How 
should  she  tell  of  John  Henry's  strange  greedy  grasp  of 
her,  that  revolted  her  and  darkened  all  the  future? 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  89 

"I  wouldn't  like  to  have  you  break  off  with  John  Henry, 
exactly,"  said  Jane  West  dispassionately.  "There'd  be  such 
a  to-do  and  talk,  and  your  father  would  act  up  so,  for  a 
while  anyway.  And  a  promise  to  marry  is  almost  as  bind- 
ing as  the  wedding  itself,  and  everybody  feels  that  way 
about  it.  But,  all  the  same,  I  don't  want  you  to  marry  him 
unless  you  feel  pretty  sure  it's  going  to  be  all  right.  Marry- 
ing isn't  like  anything  else — for  a  woman,  I  mean.  All 
the  other  folks  you  have  around  you,  you  can  get  away 
from,  even  your  family.  But  a  husband's  a  stubborn  fact. 
Just  having  him  in  the  same  room  with  you  sometimes  is 
enough  to  set  you  crazy.  There  are  times  when  every 
woman,  I  don't  care  who  she  is,  hates  the  man  she's  tied  to 
so  hard  that  she  would  like  to  kill  him.  For  he  won't  let 
you  get  away  from  him.  If  he's  not  satisfied,  he  gives  you 
no  peace.  No  matter  if  you  think  the  world  and  all  of  him, 
it's  just  the  same.  And  the  first  years  are  the  worst,  till 
you  learn  how  to  manage  him,  and  make  allowances,  and 
have  children." 

"You're  not  giving  me  much  encouragement,  Ma." 

"I  do  sound  gloomy,  that's  a  fact.  Maybe  I  was  put- 
ting it  too  strong.  But  no,  Louellen,  I'm  not.  And  I  can 
say  the  more,  because  John  Henry's  a  good  bit  like  your 
Pa  when  he  was  a  young  man.  And  you're  a  good  bit  like 
me  when  I  was  a  girl." 

"Mother,"  demanded  Louellen,  "if  you  had  it  to  do  over 
again,  would  you  have  married  Pa  ?" 

Mrs.  West  laughed,  the  comfortable  laugh  of  a  philo- 
sophic woman  unafflicted  with  nerves.  "If  you'd  asked  me 
that  last  week  when  he  took  the  notion  that  I  ought  to 
mend  all  those  old  sacks  against  next  year's  harvest,  whether 
or  no,  and  they  stinking  dirty,  and  the  weather  so  hot, 
and  right  when  I  was  putting  up  pickle,  I  expect  I'd've 
said  no,  no,  never.  Just  the  unreasonableness  and  the  dumb- 
ness of  a  man  about  little  things'll  sometimes  fret  you  past 
bearing.  But  take  it  year  in  and  year  out,  your  Pa  and  I 
have  got  along  pretty  well.  He's  a  good  provider,  and  he 


90  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

won't  so  much  as  look  at  another  woman,  even  if  she  was 
as  handsome  as  a  picture,  and  that's  a  mighty  comfort,  no 
matter  who  says  'tisn't.  He's  never  been  mean  about  the 
egg  and  butter  money,  like  some  men,  neither." 

"Oh!"  cried  Louellen,  "is  this  all  there  is  to  marrying — 
all?  Having  children,  eggs  and  butter  money,  mending 
grain  sacks,  a  man  around  under  foot  all  the  time,  a  good 
provider?  It's  just  like  the  Jew  peddler  said — happy  or  not, 
everybody  eats.  Isn't  there  any — companionship — and  un- 
derstanding— and — and  happiness — that's  different  from 
everything  else?" 

"I'm  afraid  you've  got  romantic  notions,"  said  her  mother 
swiftly,  "or  you're  thinking  about  Mart  Bladen.  What  is 
it  between  you  and  Mart,  anyway  ?" 

"What  is  there  against  Mart,  I'd  like  to  know?"  parried 
Louellen.  "The  Bladens  were  nice  people — you  used  to  be 
friends  with  his  mother,  didn't  you?  The  two  girls  were 
nice.  Why  should  Pa  be  so  awful  down  on  Mart?" 

"Permelia  Bladen  was  as  good  a  woman  as  ever  stepped," 
conceded  Mrs.  West.  "And  Mart's  father  was  right  likely, 
too,  though  I  never  was  well  acquainted  with  him.  But 
Mart's  always  been  wild." 

"That  doesn't  make  him  wicked.  You  said  so  yourself 
to  Mrs.  Truitt  out  at  camp.  You  said,  wildness  and  wicked- 
ness are  different  and  many  a  wild  young  man'll  settle  down 
in  time  and  be  a  good  citizen.  You  know  you  did." 

"So  they  do,  so  they  do.  And  then  again,  they  don't. 
There's  the  Kemps,  and  Mart  runs  with  'em.  All  the 
same — " 

"Ma,"  demanded  Louellen,  "are  you  arguing  for  Mart  or 
against  him?" 

Mrs.  West  was  forced  to  smile.  "Be  switched  if  I  know. 
There's  something  mighty  taking  about  that  boy  and  always 
was.  I  mind  him  as  a  little  shaver  sitting  in  his  mother's 
lap,  curls  all  over  his  head,  and  laughing,  as  jolly  and  cun- 
ning as  you  please." 

Something  constricted  Louellen's  throat.     Mart — laugh- 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  91 

ing!  She  could  see  him  so.  "But,"  concluded  Mrs.  West, 
"I'd  hate  to  see  you  married  to  a  drinking  man." 

The  words  evoked  another  image  of  Mart — Mart  drunk, 
dirty,  rioting.  That  was  how  he  had  shown  her  that  he  did 
not  care — enough.  The  door  of  communication  between  her 
own  heart  and  her  mother's  snapped  to. 

"You're  not  going  to  see  me  marry  a  drinking  man,  un- 
less John  Henry  takes  to  drink.  I've  passed  my  word  to 
John  Henry  and  I'm  going  to  keep  it.  It's  just  as  well." 

Mrs.  West's  counsels  were  not  all  said.  "Maybe  it  is.  I, 
myself,  I  favor  a  marriage  where  the  man's  more  in  love  with 
the  woman  than  she  is  with  him.  It  gives  her  a  hold  on  him, 
and  on  herself.  It  gives  her  a  place  in  her  feelings  where 
things  can't  drive  in  on  her  so  hard.  You  don't  understand 
me  now,  but  you  will  after  a  while.  You  see,  Louellen, 
when  a  woman  cares  such  a  lot  for  a  man  he  can  hurt  her  so, 
in  her  feelings.  It's  good  when  she  doesn't  have  to  care 
so  much,  and  can  keep  out  of  the  strain  of  it.  Yet,  to  live 
with  any  man,  unless  you  think  a  powerful  lot  of  him, 
unless  he  matters  more'n  anything  in  the  world,  is  past 
enduring.  Oh — I  want  you  to  be  contented.  I'd  like  to 
see  you  a  little  more  excited  and  foolish,  like  Annie.  I 
wish — you'd  have  wanted  that  shawl."  There  was  wistful 
love  in  her  words,  yearning  in  her  eyes. 

Caresses  were  rare  in  the  West  family.  Amos  West  had 
always  condemned  any  demonstration  of  affection — "the 
setting  up  of  vain  idols,"  "weakness  and  vanity  of  human 
ties,"  etc.,  etc.  But  now  Louellen  dropped  her  work,  and 
bent  over  her  mother,  hugged  her,  put  a  burrowing  chin 
into  her  broad  shoulder,  and  for  a  moment  luxuriated,  as 
does  a  very  little  child,  in  the  secure  tenderness  of  her 
embrace. 

"Oh,  Ma — you're  so  good." 

"Don't  you  be  unhappy,  Louellen — about  Mart  Bladen. 
There's  always  some  fellow  like  that  to  hang  around  a 
girl  and  get  her  all  excited,  but  if  you  married  him  you'd 
maybe  be  like  poor  Tillie  Kemp,  and  that's  a  black  valley 


92  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

to  travel.  Safe  things  is  best.  I'll  admit  that  I'd've  liked 
you  to  pick  up  with  somebody  who's  got  a  little  more  give 
and  take  to  him  than  John  Henry,  and  wasn't  so  bent  on 
religion — and  I  don't  care  if  it's  a  sin  to  say  so.  Well, 
maybe  I  don't  mean  that — I  reckon  I  mean  I  wish  he  didn't 
take  his  religion  so  hard  and  gloomy  like  your  Pa  does. 
The  day  of  joyful  saints  seems  to  be  clear  past,  round 
hereabouts,  anyways.  But  maybe  you  can  get  him  chirked 
up  and  out  of  it  somewhat,  for  he  certainly  does  dote  on 
you."  She  patted  Louellen  on  the  back  for  reassurance. 

Tremblingly,  reluctantly,  the  girl  answered:  "It's — that, 
Ma.  He — he  thinks  too  much  of  me.  He  scares  me — some- 
times he  turns  me — kind  of  sick." 

Her  mother  had  an  instant  clear  vision  of  the  passionate 
darkness  of  John  Henry,  on  fire  with  craving,  sharp-set, 
unsatisfied.  She  knew.  But  she  could  not  explain  it  to  her 
daughter  without  heightening  her  apprehension,  creating 
disgust.  She  stroked  Louellen's  hair,  held  her  close. 

"John  Henry's  a  young  man,"  she  said,  "and  he's  got  a 
young  man's  feelings.  When  you're  married,  when  he's 
sure  of  you,  you  see,  all  that  will  pass  away.  It's  the  un- 
certainty and  the  long  delay  that's  pushed  him  so.  You 
kept  him  hanging  round  for  a  long  time,  Louellen,  and 
worried  him  considerable.  Now — don't  you  think  about  it 
any  more." 

She  resolved  to  drop  a  terse  hint  to  John  Henry.  He 
should  be  more  cautious.  Louellen  wasn't  one  of  those  girls 
who  let  every  young  spark  riding  by  kiss  and  get  familiar, — 
she  wasn't  even  interested  in  hearing  the  other  girls  tell 
about  that  sort  of  thing.  Jane  West  had  kept  a  close  eye 
on  both  her  girls,  but  with  a  minimum  of  spoken  precept. 
She  kissed  the  smooth  cheek  nearest  her.  The  scene  had 
come  to  its  climax,  and  she  was  satisfied  that  talking  out 
the  matter  had  cooled  its  heat. 

"You  pick  up  that  tinware  and  put  yours  with  the  rest 
of  your  things,"  she  directed  in  her  everyday  voice.  "And 
take  what  I  got  for  myself  to  the  kitchen.  Don't  you  think 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  93 

you  better  go  help  Annie  and  Rachel  a  little  ?  You've  been 
sewing  pretty  steady  and  it  gets  tiresome." 

She  gazed  after  her,  still  not  quite  serene.  She  had  an 
acute  sense  of  balance  and  fairness,  Jane  West.  John 
Henry — and  Mart  Bladen.  She  recalled  Permelia  Bladen's 
quick  blue  eyes,  her  pride  in  her  last  baby.  She  saw  Mart, 
warm,  sturdy,  engaging.  And  she  became  conscious  that 
she  had  betrayed  her  own  little  live  streak  of  romance 
that  had  colored  her  secret  imaginings,  helped  her  into  a 
humorous  and  contented  middle  age,  and  had  caused,  more 
than  once,  Amos  West  and  his  strait-laced  intimates  to  cock 
a  suspicious  eye  at  her,  albeit  they  could  verify  nothing  of 
its  existence. 

"If  I  had  to  do  it  myself,"  she  thought,  "blessed  if  I 
wouldn't  take  Mart.  But  for  your  own  daughter — no— 
I  couldn't  prescribe  it.  It's  too  big  a  risk." 


CHAPTER  TEN 

PUBLIC  opinion,  for  the  greater  part,  supported  Jane 
West.  In  this  long-settled  farming  community,  dating 
back  to  the  late  sixteen  hundreds,  an  appreciation  of  all 
the  solid  virtues  was  universal.  Yet  there  were  two  dis- 
tinct elements,  present  from  the  first  settlement,  in  which 
division  was  made  roughly  along  religious  lines.  The 
Catholics  and  Episcopalians  still  clung  to  traditions  of  the 
old  cavalier  aristocracy  of  palatinate  days,  traditions  that 
had  their  keynote  in  lavishness,  lavish  living,  lavish  spend- 
ing, lavish  hospitality,  delegated  authority  and  responsi- 
bility in  cultivating  their  fertile  holdings,  and  more  or  less 
of  disinclination  to  hard  manual  labor.  The  Civil  War  put 
a  definite  end  to  this  sort  of  existence,  but  the  type  per- 
sisted, having  a  real  vitality.  But  from  the  very  first  of 
Maryland  history  there  had  been  another  element,  Metho- 
dist, with  a  powerful  flavoring  of  Puritan.  These  were 
mostly  small  farmers  who  would  not  hold  slaves,  deeming 
it  a  matter  of  conscience  not  to  do  so,  so  in  order  to  till 
their  fields  were  forced  to  hire  at  a  wage  the  slaves  of  their 
less  scrupulous  neighbors  of  the  big  plantations.  This 
element  had  also  a  stout  vitality,  and  since  the  old  days  of 
slavery  were  over,  and  the  fox-hunting,  hard-riding,  hard- 
drinking  idle  squire  could  now  no  longer  finance  himself 
save  by  selling  off  his  land,  it  was  the  small  farmers  who 
bought  him  up,  establishing  themselves  firmly  in  his  place, 
but  with  a  mighty  difference.  It  was  largely  this  hitherto 
disregarded  element  which,  gathering  its  strength,  carried 
the  State  Constitutional  Convention  of  1864,  assembled  at 
Annapolis,  and  adopted  that  "Bill  of  Rights"  which  abol- 
ished slavery  in  the  state  of  Maryland  forever.  Yet,  among 
these,  there  were  many  who  voted  the  Democratic  ticket, 
even  in  those  troubled  times  when  the  way  to  the  polling 

94 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  95 

place  lay  between  files  of  soldiers  with  fixed  bayonets.  It 
is  a  matter  of  record  that  when  feeling  was  at  its  height 
one  sturdy  yeoman  went  to  the  ballot  box  with  his  Demo- 
cratic ticket  in  one  hand  and  an  unsheathed  bowie  knife 
in  the  other.  There  is  no  coercion  for  conviction  such  as 
this.  It  has  an  unbreakable  fiber.  Freedom  for  such  people 
is  not  a  word  to  be  spoken,  but  a  condition  of  living. 

In  the  decade  and  a  half  that  had  passed  since  the 
Civil  War,  the  aristocratic  element  had  waned,  the  Puritan 
had  been  stabilized  and  strengthened.  Basic  conditions, 
however,  did  not  change,  the  farmer  and  his  industry  con- 
tinuing paramount,  the  towns  existing  mostly  as  points  of 
focus  for  shipping  of  produce  and  the  necessary  distribu- 
tion of  supplies,  and  also  for  the  administration  of  the  local 
government,  the  availability  of  the  law. 

Nor  must  it  be  supposed  that  this  religious  and  social 
cleavage  was  distinct  or  precise.  The  community  was  too 
small,  too  near  a  level  in  means  and  opportunity,  too  long- 
established  in  ties  of  acquaintance  and  kinship  for  that. 
The  old  slave  holders  took  what  means  they  had  and  with- 
drew to  the  towns  and  lived  as  well  as  they  could, — many 
of  them  sought  political  jobs,  register  of  wills,  county  clerk, 
Justice  of  the  Peace.  To  win  such  preferment  necessitated 
amiable  contacts  with  all  voters.  General  conditions  tended 
toward  a  democracy  of  feeling  and  understanding. 

The  very  isolation  of  the  community,  geographically,  the 
few  railroad  lines,  the  slowness  of  boat  transportation,  and 
their  own  inclination  as  well,  kept  them  in  partial  isolation 
from  the  swift  impetus  and  fret  of  progress,  turned  them 
to  one  another  for  interest  and  society.  Old  traditions 
flourished,  and  old  customs  were  not  discarded.  Everybody 
knew  everybody  else,  and  gossip  flourished  pleasantly,  with 
no  undercurrent  of  malice  or  spite.  Death,  birth,  marriage, 
church  or  private  entertainment,  travel,  nothing  was  too 
large  or  too  small  to  furnish  a  grist  of  news  and  comment. 
The  solid  virtues  received  their  due  share  of  acclamation, 
but  even  their  keenest  appreciators  were  not  wholly  naive. 


96  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

The  approaching  marriage  of  Louellen  West  and  John 
Henry  Hyde,  with  the  attendant  disappointment  of  Mart 
Bladen,  furnished  a  fruitful  theme.  The  fact  that  the  two 
young  bachelors  should  be  neighbors,  and  both  sue  for  the 
same  girl,  was  in  itself  unusual  and  exciting.  It  was  the 
consensus  of  opinion  that  Louellen  had  done  well  for  her- 
self, but  there  were  rejoinders  that  an  ultimate  share  of 
Amos  West's  worldly  goods  was  not  wholly  outside  of  John 
Henry's  careful  reckoning.  Miss  Becca  Simpson  remarked 
caustically  that  for  her  part,  if  she  was  Louellen,  she'd  just 
as  soon  marry  a  death's  head  with  a  bone  in  its  mouth. 
But  while  this  won  some  appreciative  titters,  it  was  held 
to  be  merely  one  of  Miss  Becca's  flourishes,  and  not  to  be 
taken  seriously. 

Sister  Truitt,  on  the  other  hand,  openly  acclaimed  the  ap- 
proaching nuptials  as  the  establishment  of  another  godly  and 
righteous  household,  pleasing  in  the  sight  of  the  Lord. 

Rena  Massey,  whose  mind  was  set  on  the  gauds  of  this 
world  rather  than  on  the  treasures  of  the  next,  was  openly 
regretful  that  Louellen  did  not  see  fit  to  provide  herself 
with  a  more  dressy  outfit.  There  was  further  peevishness 
— concealed — in  Rena's  feeling,  because  most  of  the  pur- 
chases for  Louellen's  trousseau  were  made  in  Baltimore  and 
not  from  the  Massey  store. 

Esther  Dawson,  belonging  to  a  younger  set  that  found 
all  marriage  exciting  and  stimulating,  would  have  pre- 
ferred to  see  it  approached  with  a  more  festive  spirit. 

There  were  other  girls  who  were  openly  congratulatory 
to  Louellen  for  choosing  John  Henry,  but  secretly  congrat- 
ulated themselves  that  she  had  not  taken  Mart.  He  was 
now  wholly  free.  Of  all  these  Delia  Lay  ton  was  the  chief, 
though  since  the  dreadful  day  when  she  had  hastened  to  tell 
him  of  his  rejection,  she  had  not  seen  him.  She  clung  des- 
perately to  the  hope  that  after  the  wedding  had  taken  place 
he  would  need  consolation,  be  more  accessible. 

Amos  West  was  sincerely  and  honestly  pleased,  though 
he  felt  that  it  was  more  than  his  just  due.  He  could  never 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  97 

understand  why  the  ungodly  should  be  allowed  to  flourish. 
Prosperity,  success,  happiness,  fulfillment  of  desires,  he 
considered  exclusively  the  right  of  the  good  man  and 
woman,  goodness  to  be  interpreted  in  terms  of  austere  living 
and  strict  religious  observance,  and  an  abundance  of  intol- 
erance for  any  one  who  did  not  do  likewise. 

He  had  brought  up  his  daughters  in  the  way  they  should 
go,  and  that  Louellen  should  have  attracted  that  unregener- 
ate  profligate,  Mart  Bladen,  was  a  distinct  shortcoming  and 
lack  of  recognition  on  the  part  of  Providence.  Now  that 
she  had  seen  the  light  and  was  prepared  to  join  hands  with 
and  be  submissive  to  a  true  son  of  the  church,  Amos  West 
knew  that  the  favor  of  the  Lord  was  surely  his.  It  made 
him  unusually  liberal  in  providing  Louellen  with  her  wed- 
ding outfit.  He  gave  her  not  only  money  for  clothes  and 
linen  and  a  handsome  set  of  furniture,  but  added  thereto 
some  blooded  cattle,  a  beautiful  young  driving  horse,  and  a 
thousand  dollar  mortgage,  the  interest  of  which  would  be 
for  her  own  spending.  He  also  indicated  that  he  desired 
the  wedding  dinner  to  be  a  feast  of  lavishness.  He  would 
send,  he  vowed,  to  Baltimore  for  a  barrel  of  oysters,  for 
celery,  tropical  fruits,  raisins,  nuts,  confectionery.  Jane 
West,  canny,  observing  his  state  of  malleability,  suggested 
that  they  would  need  more  china,  more  glass  and  silver.  To 
which  he  replied  tersely,  "Get  what  you  want,"  and  had  no 
suspicion  that  his  wife  had  manipulated  him  to  fulfill  cer- 
tain worldly  ambitions  toward  gold-banded  plates,  a  crystal 
centerpiece  and  a  silver  cake-basket. 

Against  all  this  conclusive  weight  of  approbation  there 
were  a  few  of  Mart  Bladen's  associates  who  swore  that  it 
was  a  double  d'd  shame  and  an  outrage  that  any  girl  should 
fancy  a  hide-bound  spoil-sport  like  John  Henry  Hyde,  when 
she  might  have  had  a  real  man, — but  even  these  were  in- 
clined, under  their  breath,  to  felicitate  Mart  on  having 
escaped  the  weariness  of  being  son-in-law  to  Amos  West. 
There  were  plenty  of  girls  left  to  pick  from — to  their  way 
of  thinking  a  woman  was  only  a  woman,  and  there  was 


98  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

little  to  choose  between  one  and  another,  provided  they  were 
young  and  pretty  and  not  too  prudish.  These  rustic  men 
of  the  world  did  not  comprehend  monogamy,  either  from 
inclination  or  necessity,  hence  there  seemed  to  them  no 
reason  why  Mart  should  set  his  heart  on  any  girl  in  par- 
ticular. 

But  they  did  not  press  their  views  on  him,  nor  rally  him 
on  his,  save  once.  Jere  Willis  was  the  offender:  "Hear 
your  girl  dished  you  for  a  deacon,"  he  jeered,  soon  after 
the  story  got  about.  "That  why  you  look  so  down  in  the 
mouth?" 

He  and  those  around  him  were  unprepared  for  what  fol- 
lowed. Mart  had  blazed :  "You  keep  off  me  and  my  looks, 
or  I'll  shut  your  mouth  for  you." 

They  had  both  been  drinking,  enough  to  make  Jere, 
usually  good-natured,  inclined  to  swagger.  "I'll  say  what 
I  please  when  I  please,"  he  returned  truculently. 

Mart  leaped  at  him  on  the  instant  and  there  was  a  very 
beautiful  fight  which  delighted  those  who  were  fortunate 
enough  to  be  present.  They  made  a  ring  and  encouraged 
the  combatants  impartially.  "Sock  it  to  'im,  Jere,"  "Slug 
'im,  Mart." 

Jere  was  a  larger  man  than  Mart,  had  a  longer  reach, 
possessed  more  brute  strength,  but  he  might  as  well  have 
fought  a  whirlwind,  populated  with  wild  cats.  Mart  had 
such  pent-up  emotion  to  relieve  through  his  muscles,  and 
he  was  so  merciless  and  beat  Jere  so  cruelly,  even  after  he 
had  yelled  "  'nough,"  that  the  others  interfered  and  dragged 
him  off.  He  was  still  crazy  with  senseless  fury.  They 
had  to  hold  him,  overpower  him.  In  the  end  he  managed 
to  wrench  free,  and  leaping  on  Star,  rode  away  from  them, 
break-neck.  Jere  picked  himself  up,  felt  of  his  swollen 
eye,  spat  blood  from  a  misshapen,  swelling  mouth. 

"What's  the  matter  with  him?"  he  demanded,  bewildered. 
"Can't  he  take  a  joke?  I  didn't  know  he  was  going  to  get 
mad." 

The  spectators  were  as  amazed  as  the  victim.     "And  he 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  99 

looked  so  funny,"  commented  Joe  Kemp.  "Like  he  was 
going  to  cry." 

"Didn't  feel  like  he  was  crying  none  when  he  hit  me," 
said  Jere  ruefully.  "Loosened  my  two  front  teeth.  And 
lookit  my  shirt.  Bloody  son  of  a  bitch — whadit  he  mean, 
flying  at  me,  like  that  ?" 

"You  oughtn'  to've  rigged  him  about  losing  his  girl," 
contributed  Gid  Cummins.  "He's  like  a  bear  with  a  sore 
head  about  getting  the  go-by." 

"But  hell — what's  a  girl  more  or  less?"  demanded  Jere. 
"Whyn't  he  go  whale  the  lights  outa  John  Henry  Hyde 
'nstead  of  me?  I  didn't  get  his  girl." 

Something  of  the  same  question  was  running  through 
Mart's  own  disheveled  head  as  he  rode  away.  Why  had 
he  struck  Jere?  Jere  was  blameless.  Even  his  joke  was 
harmless  enough,  not  as  rough  as  much  of  the  other  "run- 
ning" that  the  gang  frequently  indulged  in  with  one  another. 
Yet  it  had  been  acid  to  Mart's  wound. 

The  fight  had  sobered  him,  of  drink  and  of  feeling.  His 
mind  turned  inevitably  to  Louellen.  Only  two  nights  be- 
fore, riding  past  her  home,  in  futile  hunger  to  see  her,  he 
had  met  her  with  John  Henry  in  his  buggy  on  their  sedate 
way  to  Wednesday  night  prayer-meeting.  Through  the 
thin  darkness  he  recognized  them,  reined  his  horse  to  let 
them  pass. 

The  sight  of  her  thus  had  been  torment.  He  had  felt 
murder  clutch  at  his  impulses.  He  wanted  to  leap  at  John 
Henry's  throat  as  he  had  leaped  at  Jere,  and  clamp  his 
fingers  in  his  throat  and  so  hold  him,  hold  him  struggling 
and  gasping  and  choking,  until  he  was  as  dead  as  a  herring. 
He  could  have  done  it  rejoicingly  before  Louellen's  eyes. 

And  now,  coming  from  this  fight  with  Jere,  he  regretted 
that  he  had  let  John  Henry  and  Louellen  pass.  Indubitably 
it  was  John  Henry  he  should  have  battered  and  beaten.  He 
pulled  up  Star  and  meditated.  There  was  no  reason  why 
it  should  not  yet  be  done,  satisfyingly.  Perhaps,  if  he 
did  it,  it  would  clear  a  way  out  of  this  miasma  of  pain  and 


100  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

resentment  and  indirection  through  which  he  had,  it  seemed, 
been  stumbling  for  uncounted  time,  ever  since  Louellen  had 
told  him.  .  .  .  Maybe  some  sort  of  violent  action  would 
straighten  things.  .  .  .  And  he  must  do  something,  or  the 
pressure  of  the  empty  days  would  break  him. 

He  turned  Star  to  the  road  that  would  take  him  to  the 
Wests'.  John  Henry  would  be  there,  every  night,  he  was 
sure.  And  he  was  glad  that  he  would  be — he'd  rather 
thrash  John  Henry  in  front  of  Louellen  than  behind  her 
back.  Then  she'd  see  who  was  the  better  man. 

So  he  reasoned  with  himself,  disregarding  the  most  obvi- 
ous facts  and  conclusions,  as  all  of  us  do  when  we  are  in 
the  power  of  something  stronger  than  ourselves.  He  who 
called  love  a  state  of  insanity  was  hideously  right.  Suc- 
cessful or  unsuccessful,  it  fosters  delusions  which  later  we 
can  only  marvel  at. 

So  Mart.  As  he  rode  he  wondered  why  he  had  not  done 
this  before.  And  why  he  had  not  been  more  persistent, 
dogged  Louellen's  presence,  compelled  her.  It  was  that 
first  visit  that  had  held  him  back  from  going  again.  It  had 
all  been  too — queer.  But  he  now  explained  it  all  to  him- 
self, with  confidence.  She  was  angry,  then,  with  his  esca- 
pade at  the  camp-meeting  so  fresh  in  her  mind.  Now  she 
would  partially  have  forgotten  that.  Yet  he  could  not  be 
entirely  sure. 

For  in  her  denial  of  herself  to  him,  he  had  had  a  rudi- 
mentary sense  of  the  injustice  of  it.  She  had  reminded 
him  that  she  had  given  her  word  and  she  had  kept  it.  That 
he  had  given  his  word  and  he  had  broken  it.  Even-handed 
is  fate,  even-handed  and  cruel,  without  leniency,  without 
kindness.  Only  .  .  .  why  should  Louellen  set  herself  up 
as  Fate?  The  bitterest  taste  was  that  she  had  not  loved 
him  enough  to  forgive.  He  had  a  dim  consciousness  that 
love  without  forgiveness,  without  adjustment  to  the  indi- 
vidual need,  without  tolerance,  lacked  its  big  essential. 
Louellen  had  failed  him.  The  pale,  tight-lipped  girl  who  had 
faced  him  in  the  hallway  and  so  rigidly  adhered  to  her 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  101 

thin  notions  of  right  and  wrong  was  not  the  Louellen  he 
knew  and  loved,  the  Louellen  who  .had  warmth  and  life  and 
feeling.  Strict  justice  she  had  dealt  to  him,  and  justice,  he 
felt,  had  nothing  vital  to  do  with  youth  and  love. 

But  by  now,  he  argued  eagerly  to  convince  himself,  Louel- 
len would  have  had  time  to  let  her  anger  cool,  and  repent 
that  she  had  engaged  herself  to  John  Henry.  The  Louellen 
whom  he  loved  was  more  real  than  that  other,  that  strange 
Louellen  who  had  told  him  she  was  going  to  marry  John 
Henry  Hyde.  He  forgot  that  other  Louellen,  pushed  her 
into  oblivion.  He  lifted  his  face  and  swore  to  the  unheed- 
ing calm  of  the  twilight  sky  that  Louellen  was  not  going 
to  marry  John  Henry  Hyde.  She  could  not.  .  .  . 

The  material  and  conventional  obstacles  did  not  worry 
him,  or  loom  large  in  his  mind,  though  he  was  aware  that 
local  custom  regarded  an  acknowledged  betrothal  as  only 
one  degree  less  binding  than  marriage  itself,  and  a  broken 
engagement,  unless  for  serious  cause,  was  a  scandal,  frowned 
on  by  every  class,  discountenanced,  disfavored.  Mart  did 
not  think  of  this.  What  to  him  was  public  opinion?  He 
had  never  catered  to  it,  never  trimmed  or  changed  for  it. 
What  would  it  be  to  Louellen,  once  he  held  her  safe,  pro- 
tected by  his  love  ?  He  would  make  up  to  her  for  all  criti- 
cism, all  reproach.  He  would  do  everything  she  wished. 

He  remembered  the  swift  curve  of  her  lips,  the  changing 
lights  of  blue  that  turned  her  eyes  first  teasingly,  then  deeply 
tender.  He  put  out  his  hand  as  if  to  touch  her  warm  hands, 
so  small  in  his  own.  He  saw  the  slimness  of  her,  with  the 
strength  beneath  it  that  made  her  all  smooth  and  pliant 
curves.  He  conjured  her  before  him  to  convince  him  that 
she  was  really  his,  and  that  the  immediate  past  was  no  more 
than  an  ugly  dream.  He  groped  for  words  to  phrase  her 
in.  ...  "Little  dear  sweetness"  .  .  .  "My  girl !"  .  .  .  (He 
was  not  gifted  in  the  speech  of  sentiment,  but  these  sufficed.) 
At  last  he  rode  up  to  her  door  in  confidence.  By  God,  she 
'must  own  the  truth  this  time.  When  he  was  through  with 
John  Henry  ...  he  was  ready  for  anything. 


102  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

As  he  had  hoped,  John  Henry's  team  was  there,  at  one  of 
the  row  of  hitching  posts.  The  sight  pleased  Mart.  It 
seemed  an  auspicious  beginning. 

He  banged  at  the  front  door,  and  it  was  opened  by  Amos 
West,  instantly  bristling. 

"What  do  you  want?"  he  demanded. 

"To  see  Louellen." 

"You  can't  see  her.  You  can't  come  into  my  house.  You 
get  off  my  premises  and  stay  off." 

"Don't  get  too  brash,"  said  Mart.  "I've  licked  a  man 
a  lot  bigger  than  you  to-day.  I  came  to  see  Louellen  and 
Louellen  I'm  going  to  see,  come  hell  or  high  water.  Under- 
stand that?  Is  she  home?" 

"Get  out  of  here,"  said  Amos  West  again.  "I'd  as  lief 
shoot  you  as  any  dog  that  came  after  my  sheep." 

"You  got  a  high  temper  for  a  church  member,"  said  Mart, 
beginning  to  enjoy  the  wordy  fray.  "It's  poor  sense  for  me 
to  quarrel  with  you  again, — but  don't  you  start  any  shoot- 
ing, or  I  might  do  something  worse'n  sling  hard  words.  You 
think  you're  not  going  to  let  me  see  Louellen,  h'mh?"  He 
raised  his  voice.  "Oh-h,  Louellen — come  out  here,  will 


you 


The  door  into  the  hallway  opened,  but  Amos  West  ad- 
dressed savage  admonition  over  his  shoulder:  "You  go 
back.  Wait — tell  John  Henry  to  come  out  here — " 

"That  suits  me  precisely,"  said  Mart.  "I  was  aiming  to 
see  John  Henry,  too." 

But  ahead  of  John  Henry  came  Louellen,  and  the  instant 
that  Mart  saw  her  he  knew  that  all  his  dreams  were  in  vain. 
She  was  farther  from  him  than  before.  She  seemed  older, 
tired,  remote  and  alone,  and  something  of  his  youth  left 
Mart  Bladen's  heart  as  he  realized  her. 

"Oh,  Mart,"  she  said,  as  if  his  being  there  was  no  sur- 
prise, but  another  weariness  and  pain,  "why  will  you  do 
things  like  this?" 

With  that  John  Henry  appeared  at  her  shoulder.     "You 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  103 

go  back,"  he  said,  his  hand  proprietor-fashion  on  her  arm, 
"I'll  deal  with  him." 

"Let  me  alone,"  said  Louellen  sharply.  Somehow  she 
seemed  to  assert  herself,  efface  the  two  hostile  men  behind 
her.  She  stood  before  them,  a  hand  on  each  doorpost,  her 
arms  spread  wide  and  stiffly,  like  a  crucifix,  silhouetted  and 
leaning  toward  the  man  outside.  "Mart,"  she  went  on, 
"what's  the  use  of  you  acting  like  this  ?  I  told  you  before — 
I  told  you—" 

"Louellen,"  he  said,  "I  can't — I  won't  believe  it.  I  had 
to  see  you  again — "  His  voice  failed.  He  forgot  that 
he  had  come  to  lick  John  Henry  as  he  had  licked  Jere.  He 
forgot  everything  but  that  she  was  there,  and  near  him,  and 
he  could  speak  to  her. 

"It  wasn't  right,  the  things  I  said  the  other  time,"  he  said, 
groping.  "I  didn't  mean  it — when  I  left,  you  know.  I 
don't  hold  anything  up  against  you,  Louellen.  But — what 
do  you  do  this  for?" 

She  stood  rigid.  "Go  on  away,  Mart.  It's  too  late  now. 
Go  on  away  and — and  get — some  other  girl,  and  be — 
happy." 

"Don't  talk  foolishness,"  he  cried.  "Think  I'd  ever  look 
at  any  girl  but  you  ?" 

They  became  aware  of  indignation  rolling  over  her  shoul- 
ders. 

"Are  you  crazy,  Louellen,  to  stand  there,  answering  that 
worthless  rip — "  It  appeared  that  Amos  West  was 
seething  with  rage.  "Go  in  to  your  mother — John  Henry 
and  I'll  attend  to  him."  John  Henry,  too,  was  making 
hostile  demonstrations. 

"You  only  make  things  hard  for  me,  Mart,"  she  said. 
"Go  away — and  don't  come  back."  Suddenly  she  shut  the 
door  in  his  face  and  stood  with  her  back  against  it,  holding 
to  the  knob.  She  faced  her  father  and  the  man  she  was 
going  to  marry,  and  held  her  ground. 

"If  either  of  you  go  out  there  and — and  touch  him,"  she 


104  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

said,  "I'll  go  out,  too, — and  I'll  go  away  with  him, — if  he 
wants  me  to.  No,  I'll  go  whether  he  wants  me  to  or  not." 

The  revolt  was  so  stupendous  that  Amos  West  was  left 
fairly  without  words.  The  moment  that  they  stood  there 
was  the  longest  and  the  hardest  of  all  his  fifty-six  years. 
He  snorted  and  choked,  but  he  did  not  try  to  move  her 
hand  from  the  door  knob.  At  the  end  of  the  moment,  she 
walked  past  them  into  the  sitting  room.  "I  think — "  said 
Amos  West,  "I  think — you  better  speak  to  her.  I  never 
knew  her  to  talk  like  this — "  He  left  John  Henry  and 
Louellen  together. 

"You  act  very  strange,  considering  how  near  our  wed- 
ding day  is,"  began  John  Henry,  rebukingly.  "I  don't  want 
any  more  of  this  kind  of  goings  on,  Louellen,  that's  flat." 

"Do  you  want  to  back  out?"  demanded  Louellen,  seizing 
instantly  this  slight  chance  to  escape.  "Do  you  want  to 
break  it  off  ?  Because  if  you  do,  I'm  ready." 

Her  hardness,  her  determination  brought  him  to  in- 
stant submission.  "How  can  you  think  that?"  he  re- 
proached her.  "It'd  kill  me — so  near — and  after  I've 
waited  so." 

"Well,  then  I  reckon  we  won't  talk  about — this  evening — 
any  more,  ever,"  she  said. 

Outside,  in  the  dusk,  Mart  had  waited.  He  did  not  hear 
what  Louellen  said  after  she  closed  the  door.  If  he  had, 
he  would  never  have  gone.  He  stood  still,  waiting,  for  a 
little,  until  he  was  sure  that  neither  Amos  West  nor  John 
Henry  would  come  out.  His  braggart  imagination,  it  ap- 
peared, had  played  him  utterly  false.  Now,  for  the  first 
time,  he  accepted  it  that  Louellen  would  never  be  his  own. 
In  her  voice,  in  her  rigidness,  she  had  managed  to  convey 
to  him  finality,  and  as  a  fate,  a  nemesis,  a  destiny,  rather 
than  anything  that  they  might  will  to  change.  And  with 
this  finality  came  something  more,  a  picture,  etched  clear, 
of  the  futility,  the  absurdity  of  his  coming,  his  broken  plead- 
ing to  the  girl,  while  Amos  West  and  John  Henry  fumed 
and  snarled  behind  her  skirts. 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  105 

He  mounted  Star  and  rode  away,  and  as  he  went  he  could 
not  keep  from  laughing.  At  himself.  What  a  fool,  what 
a  saphead  he  had  been.  Why,  he  hadn't  laid  a  ringer  on 
John  Henry !  And  what  he'd  said  to  Amos  West  was  noth- 
ing. It  had  all  been  nothing.  It  is  easy  to  laugh — at  noth- 
ing, even  though  there  is  no  mirth  nor  heart  in  the  laugh- 
ter. 


CHAPTER  ELEVEN 

THE  house  was  warm  with  generous  fires,  clean  to  the 
finest  point  of  cleanness.  Everything  that  could  be 
scrubbed  had  been  scrubbed,  everything  that  could  be  pol- 
ished had  been  polished.  The  window  panes  flashed  like 
jewels.  No  scrap  of  raveling  or  stray  bit  of  fluff  marred 
the  remotest  corner  of  any  carpet.  Jane  West  had  said 
firmly  when  she  attacked  the  task:  "This  is  going  to  be  a 
real  housecleaning,  and  not  a  lick  and  a  promise."  The  re- 
sult justified  her  phrase.  It  had  taken  Rachel,  and  two 
other  stalwart  colored  women,  Jane  West  herself,  Louellen 
and  Annie  the  whole  of  ten  days  to  accomplish  it.  But 
now  it  was  done. 

Another  ten  days  were  allotted  to  the  preparation  for  the 
v/edding  dinner.  Fruit  cakes  had  been  made  six  weeks  be- 
fore, to  mellow  and  ripen  in  a  big  stone  crock,  a  rosy  apple 
or  two  keeping  them  company  and  aiding  in  the  process. 
From  time  to  time  a  small  glass  of  brandy  was  poured  on 
their  rich  darkness.  Amos  West  had  no  inhibitions  against 
the  use  of  liquor  in  cooking.  The  fruit  cake,  though  impor- 
tant, was  but  the  beginning  of  the  mighty  labors  of  the 
kitchen.  There  must  be  pound  cakes,  with  white  almond 
icing  half  an  inch  thick,  a  crisp  shell  of  flavorous  sweetness. 
There  must  be  no  less  than  four  great  Charlotte  Polonaises, 
most  tedious  and  delicate  to  bring  to  perfection.  There 
must  be  jellies,  syllabubs,  frozen  custard.  And  these  were 
mere  kickshaws  and  comfits.  The  real  stability  of  the  din- 
ner would  be  its  oyster  soup,  its  hickory  smoked  hams  that 
had  been  scrubbed  and  boiled  and  skinned  and  finally  baked 
with  a  constant  basting  of  sweet  wine,  until  their  clove- 
patterned,  knife-scored  surfaces  were  all  one  spicy  delight. 
There  must  be  young  turkeys  stuffed  with  chestnuts,  gar- 
landed with  rings  of  tiny  sausages;  there  must  be  chicken 

106 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  107 

pies  with  crust  as  light  as  a  feather;  there  must  be  molded 
cranberries,  sweet  pickled  peaches,  mustard  pickle  all  yel- 
low with  turmeric;  sweet  potatoes  glazed  with  maple  sugar 
and  laced  with  cider;  white  potatoes  beaten  to  a  fluff  with 
cream  and  butter ;  squash  and  creamed  onions ;  there  must 
be  pies,  mince,  pumpkin,  custard,  apple.  And  dozens  of 
beaten  biscuit,  loaves  of  white  bread.  The  store-room  open- 
ing off  Jane  West's  kitchen  would  have  set  Lucullus  pranc- 
ing. But,  oh,  the  work  it  entailed ! 

Not  that  that  made  any  difference.  A  wedding  dinner 
was  a  wedding  dinner  in  those  days,  and  not  a  mere  plate- 
ful of  salad  and  sandwiches  with  a  cup  of  fruit  punch 
and  a  lady  finger  or  two  passed  by  a  man  hired  from  a 
caterer.  Jane  West  meant  to  have  every  bit  of  her  new 
china  and  glass  in  use.  She  was  a  cook  of  parts,  and  so 
was  Rachel.  They  were  both  on  their  mettle.  Moreover 
had  not  Amos  West  said  to  spare  nothing?  They  took  him 
at  his  word. 

The  task  of  preparation  was  a  frenzied  delight  to  Annie. 
To  Louellen  it  was  an  anodyne.  Her  clothes  were  ready, 
packed  in  her  little  trunk.  Her  set  of  furniture,  her  por- 
tion of  quilts  and  linen,  had  all  been  sent  to  her  new  home. 
Aunt  Lena  Hyde  had  received  them  with  mixed  emotions. 
"I  expect  I'll  be  quite  as  comfortable  at  my  sister's,  back  in 
York  State,  as  here,"  she  told  Amos  West  who  had  hauled 
Louellen's  portion  over.  "John  Henry's  none  too  easy  to  do 
for.  Of  course  my  sister's  got  children,  but  then — "  She 
paused.  Into  her  strict  and  maidenly  mind  there  had 
popped  the  thought  that  in  the  course  of  nature  there  might 
be  children  in  John  Henry's  house  also,  but  she  could  not 
voice  anything  so  vulgar  to  a  man.  She  changed  her  sen- 
tence, snifflingly,  "but  then,  I  can  put  up  with  anything,  just 
so's  I  have  a  home,  and  I  believe  in  young  folks  starting  off 
to  themselves."  A  womanly  sensible  creature  Amos  West 
thought  her. 

They  were  to  be  married  at  half  past  eleven,  the  dinner 
would  be  at  twelve  and  that  over,  the  happy  pair  were  to 


108  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

drive  to  Dover  Bridge  and,  in  the  late  afternoon,  take  from 
there  the  river  boat  to  Baltimore,  arriving  in  that  city  the 
next  morning.  John  Henry  had  suggested  that  they  go  all 
the  way  to  York  State  to  see  his  people,  but  he  did  not  urge 
it.  Louellen,  with  Aunt  Lena  in  mind  as  a  specimen,  had 
not  been  enthusiastic.  Her  apathy  was  scored  by  Annie.  "I 
sh'd  think  you'd  just  jump  at  the  chance  to  travel  around, 
sis,"  said  that  active  young  damsel,  with  reproach.  But 
Louellen  had  answered  nothing. 

As  the  time  drew  nearer  her  dread,  her  foreboding  in- 
creased. What  good  could  come  of  it  all?  John  Henry's 
agitation,  his  brooding  silences,  his  violent  caresses,  as  vio- 
lently checked,  his  flashes  of  temper  followed  by  an  almost 
cringing  fear  of  resentment,  chilled  and  revolted  her.  The 
man  was  eaten  up  with  passion,  and  the  nearness  of  its 
indulgence  was  the  only  thing  he  could  think  about.  The 
vision  of  his  coming  wedding  night  obsessed  him,  and 
Louellen  hated  the  way  he  looked  at  her  when  they  were 
alone.  She  felt  herself,  dimly,  his  victim.  She  had  no 
knowledge  or  experience  whereby  to  understand,  and  be- 
cause she  did  not  love  him  she  knew  no  slightest  response 
to  his  ardors.  The  spurt  of  pity  that  had  come  to  her  when 
she  promised  to  marry  him  revived  now  and  then,  faintly, 
but  always  more  faintly.  He  was  too  clutching,  too  in- 
sistent. 

Yet  not  all  her  thoughts  were  morbid  and  uncertain. 
Contact  with  her  mother  prevented  that.  Jane  West  was 
robust  and  normal,  and  constantly  concerned  with  the  exact- 
ness of  small  details  and  arrangements.  Louellen  could  not 
shudder  away  from  the  insistence  of  John  Henry  when  her 
mother  wanted  her  to  beat  egg  whites  so  they  would  not 
fall  from  the  platter  held  upside  down,  when  fresh  cords 
must  be  put  into  pictures,  when  every  dish  and  cup  in  the 
house  must  be  dipped  in  hot  suds,  and  rinsed  and  wiped 
shining  dry.  These  and  a  hundred  other  duties  must  be 
done  and  done  well,  and  they  were  accompanied  by  the 
constant  flow  of  Jane  West's  talk,  homely,  petty  house-talk, 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  109 

cooking  talk,  talk  as  to  whether  certain  relatives  might  be 
omitted  from  the  wedding  scene  without  starting  a  family 
feud,  reminiscences  about  her  own  wedding  preparations, 
all  tinged  through  with  an  ironic,  but  not  unkindly  humor. 
Tragedy,  even  imminent  tragedy,  cannot  stalk  through  a 
recipe  for  making  soft-soap,  or  the  anecdote  of  the  young 
itinerant  preacher  who  wore  ladies'  stockings. 

Tragedy  also  was  obliged  to  hold  off  while  the  wedding 
gifts  arrived.  These  were  largely  utilitarian,  for  the  day  of 
the  wedding  gift  which  is  frankly  that  and  nothing  more, — 
it  could  hardly  be  less, — had  not  yet  arrived.  Louellen  re- 
ceived a  featherbed  and  two  feather  pillows,  four  quilts, 
three  tablecloths,  a  cut  jet  necklace  from  a  well-to-do  city 
cousin,  a  set  of  glass  tumblers  and  pitcher,  two  glass  dessert 
dishes,  high-stemmed  and  covered,  a  half  dozen  solid  silver 
spoons,  a  silver  butter  knife  and  sugar  shell  in  a  box,  a  carv- 
ing set  with  horn  handles,  a  dozen  knives  and  forks  of  pol- 
ished black  wood  and  steel,  several  pairs  of  towels,  two  pre- 
serve dishes  in  knobbed  blue  glass,  and  two  in  knobbed  green 
glass,  a  vase  in  purple-veined  imitation  marble,  various 
"splashers"  embroidered  in  red  outline  stitch  by  girl  friends, 
with  pondlilies  and  "cat-tails"  and  frogs  and  such-like 
aquatic  subjects  suitable  to  their  future  place  above  the 
wash-stand, — and  that  was  all.  One  of  her  aunts  sent  a 
half  gallon  jar  of  brandied  fruit  melange  made  by  her  own 
secret  recipe  and  esteemed  the  greatest  possible  delicacy.  Ac- 
cording to  popular  standards,  Louellen's  kin  and  friends  had 
done  well  by  her. 

As  to  the  guests,  there  Mrs.  West's  prejudices  halted  be- 
fore the  bar  of  time-honored  precedent.  To  a  wedding  all 
of  one's  blood-kin  must  be  asked  whether  they  were  desired 
for  themselves  or  not.  So  for  two  days  before  the  event 
they  came  from  everywhere,  and  lent  willing  hands  to  the 
last  preparations.  The  stables  were  filled  with  strange 
horses,  the  stable  yard  with  buggies  and  surreys.  Within 
the  house  every  bedroom  was  filled  to  overflowing.  Even 
the  bride's  room — which,  to  be  sure,  she  had  always  shared 


110  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

with  Annie — now  was  crowded  by  a  trundle  bed  for  three 
little  cousins. 

There  were  Uncle  Ben  West  and  Uncle  Tracy  West,  the 
first  a  farmer,  the  second  a  cattle-buyer,  and  both  far  more 
inclined  to  secular  joviality  than  their  elder  brother.  With 
them  came  their  wives,  Aunt  Marcia  and  Sarah,  efficient, 
capable  women  both,  whose  first  act  after  arriving  was  to 
get  into  old  frocks  and  big  gingham  aprons  and  join  the 
kitchen  forces.  These  two  families  brought  their  children, 
gawky  girls  and  boys,  seven  in  the  lot.  Great-Aunt  Virgie 
West  came  also,  severe  and  disapproving,  but  intent  to  miss 
nothing.  She  observed  only  to  condemn,  denounce  and 
deplore,  her  aged  nose  was  curled  in  a  perpetual  sniff  of 
scorn. 

On  Jane  West's  side  there  were  three  sisters,  one  unmar- 
ried and  subdued  into  deprecative  spinsterhood,  the  two 
others  bustling  matrons.  One  of  these,  Aunt  Ella  Devens, 
was  inclined  to  dressiness — and  the  authority  that  goes  with 
it — she  even  had  f  risettes  ; — and  she  had  a  watered  black 
silk  for  best  that  was  reputed  to  have  cost  fifteen  dollars 
a  yard.  She  had  imparted  her  air  of  fashion  and  elegance 
to  her  daughter  Clara,  a  languid  young  lady,  who  found  no 
one  to  her  liking  until  Rena  Massey  appeared,  and  these 
two,  recognizing  kindred  spirits,  thereafter  were  much  to- 
gether in  confidences  concerning  flounces.  A  half  dozen  or 
so  small  fry  swelled  the  total  house  guests  to  some  twenty- 
five. 

So  filled  was  the  house,  so  many  the  duties  laid  upon 
her  by  the  presence  of  such  an  assembly,  that  for  the  last 
few  days  Louellen  did  not  see  John  Henry  alone.  She  was 
quite  consciously  glad  of  it.  Her  spirits  rose  a  little  under 
the  cheer  of  his  absence  and  the  steady  round  of  chaffing 
attention  that  she  received. 

They  told  her  constantly  that  Louellen  was  a  nice  girl,  a 
pretty  girl,  a  smart  girl,  that  she'd  captured  a  fine  young 
man,  that  she'd  be  so  close  home  it  would  hardly  seem  like 
being  married — "you  can  drive  over  and  get  a  good  meal 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  111 

any  time  your  cooking  turns  out  bad"  and  "your  Mother'll 
be  right  nearby  to  run  to  for  advice" — they  commended  her 
housewifeliness,  they  praised  her  trousseau,  they  admired, 
they  pretended  to  envy.  There  was  no  dissenting  voice, 
for  Louellen  was  a  general  favorite. 
They  reminded  Jane  West  that 

"Your  son's  your  son  till  he  gets  him  a  wife, 
But  your  daughter's  your  daughter  all  your  life." 

Over  and  through  it  all  loomed  Amos  West,  his  severe 
minor  prophet's  face  quite  benevolent  with  satisfaction. 
His  sisters-in-law  tittered  among  themselves  that  it  might 
almost  be  Amos  who  was  getting  married,  he  was  so  pleased 
with  himself. 

For  all  the  complacent  and  kindly  things  they  said  to 
Louellen,  those  who  had  not  seen  and  known  him  before 
shook  their  heads  in  secret  after  their  first  glimpse  of  John 
Henry.  "Temper!"  said  one,  meaningly.  "Close-fisted," 
and  "More  religion,"  sighed  another.  "I  sh'd  think  she'd 
got  enough  at  home.  Wasn't  there  something  about  a  real 
wild  young  fellow  courting  her?"  but  the  question  was 
stifled  in  "sh-h"  as  Louellen  herself  passed  by.  "Don't  he 
ever  smile  ?"  asked  Clara,  sotto  voce  of  Rena  Massey.  The 
men  folk  were  less  critical,  though  Uncle  Ben  West  con- 
fided to  his  wife  that  the  bridegroom  seemed  "kind  of  a 
glum  fellow."  But  as  all  were  assured  of  the  extent  and 
solidity  of  John  Henry's  "prop'ty"  it  seemed,  despite  the 
few  minor  strictures  passed,  a  likely  match.  They  all  for- 
warded the  wedding  preparations  with  great  interest  and 
heartiness,  and  since  none  of  John  Henry's  people  had  made 
the  long  journey  from  York  State  to  see  him  married,  the 
day  became  peculiarly  Louellen's  festival. 


CHAPTER  TWELVE 

THEY  would  not  let  her  touch  a  finger  to  the  housework 
that  morning,  but  sent  her  to  her  room  "to  prink  and  pret- 
tify." There  was  an  early  and  hurried  breakfast,  and  then 
the  forces  divided.  The  older  children  were  told  off  to 
dress  themselves,  and  the  younger  ones,  in  their  best,  and 
then  to  go  outdoors  and  play,  sedately,  with  due  regard  for 
their  clothes  until  they  should  be  called  in. 

"Thank  goodness  it's  a  fine  day — I  never  see  better 
weather  for  early  November,"  said  one  aunt. 

"Happy  is  the  bride  that  the  sun  shines  on,"  remarked 
another,  the  spinster. 

"Looks  like  a  weather-breeder  to  me,"  opined  that  bird  of 
ill-omen,  Great-Aunt  Virgie  West.  But  she  was  set  at 
naught. 

With  the  children  out,  the  house  was  put  in  supreme 
order  and  the  dinner  preparations  begun.  When  it  was 
at  the  stage  when  it  could  be  left  to  the  colored  women,  with 
Rachel  to  direct,  husbands  were  haled  in  and  buttoned  into 
their  Sunday  shirts,  and  sent  out  to  the  wood  shed  to  shine 
their  boots.  An  unflurried  group  of  dignified  aunts  in  rust- 
ling black  silks,  with  looped  gold  watch  chains,  cameos, 
fringed  bracelets  and  smart  ruches  descended  a  full  hour 
before  the  time  for  the  ceremony,  ready  to  welcome  Bro' 
Truitt  and  his  wife,  Miss  Becca  Simpson,  and  such  of  the 
kin  on  both  sides  as  were  not  staying  in  the  house,  but  who 
drove  in  from  nearby. 

"Here  comes  the  bridegroom — looks  kind  of  edgy, 
seems  to  me,"  was  the  comment  when  John  Henry  appeared. 
Aunt  Lena,  rather  watery  as  to  eyes  and  pink  at  the  tip  of 
the  nose,  but  very  grand  in  her  dark  purple  Bonnet  faille 
and  beaver  tippet,  joined  the  swelling  ranks  below  stairs. 

Above,  Louellen,  with  Annie  and  Rena  for  aids,  and  her 

112 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  113 

mother  as  director,  had  got  into  her  wedding  dress,  the  ashes- 
of-rose  barege  that  Annie  had  so  scorned.  She  was  pale. 

"Pinch  up  your  cheeks  a  little,"  suggested  Annie.  "You 
look  like  a  ghost." 

Obediently,  silently,  Louellen  pinched  her  cheeks.  She 
was  very  silent.  She  stared  at  the  white-faced  stupid  girl 
in  the  mirror  and  found  it  almost  too  strange  to  believe  that 
it  was  she,  that  she  was  going  to  be  married,  that  below  the 
guests  were  waiting  to  see  her  made  the  wife  of  John  Henry 
Hyde. 

"If  you  feel  faint  I  got  some  smelling  salts,"  offered 
Rena.  Rena  was  very  vivid  in  garnet  surah,  the  overskirt 
trimmed  with  so  many  double  pleatings  that  she  seemed  to 
stand  in  the  foam  of  an  agitated  silken  tidal  wave.  Annie's 
dress  was  blue  delaine,  and  she  had  a  frill  of  fine  white  lace 
around  her  throat.  She  was  flushed  and  pretty  and  impor- 
tant. 

"Oh,  sis,  do  you  feel  faint?"  she  asked  anguishedly.  It 
seemed  incredible  to  Annie  that  Louellen  was  not  laughing 
and  excited.  She  acted  as  if  getting  married  was  of  no 
more  importance  than  going  to  town  for  an  afternoon ! 

Mrs.  West  came  forward.  "I  got  something  for  you/' 
she  said.  "Bend  down  your  head,  child." 

Louellen  bent  down  her  head,  and  her  mother  slipped  over 
it  a  long  heavy  gold  chain  with  a  pearl  and  turquoise 
studded  slide.  At  the  end  was  a  gold  watch,  with  encrusta- 
tions of  flowers  and  leaves  in  variously  tinted  gold.  "That's 
my  present,"  said  Jane  West  proudly.  "You  can  slip  the 
watch  right  into  the  front  of  your  basque." 

Rena  and  Annie  exclaimed  with  rapture,  but  Louellen 
stood  with  the  lovely  and  costly  thing  in  her  hand,  looking 
at  it,  still  silent. 

"Now  girls,  you  go  on  downstairs,"  said  Mrs.  West, 
cutting  short  their  adjectives.  "Tell  Aunt  Ella  to  have  the 
minister  stand  up  at  the  end  of  the  room  between  the  two 
front  windows.  When  all's  ready  you  come  and  tell  me, 
Annie,  and  send  John  Henry  up  the  back  stairs.  He  and 


114  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

Louellen  can  come  right  down  behind  me,  and  you  and  Hance 
be  there  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  to  go  in  and  stand  beside 
'em.  Be  sure  Great-Aunt  Virgie's  got  a  chair  right  up 
front — or  she'll  take  a  fit.  Now — " 

They  left  her  alone  with  Louellen.  Wistfully,  brood- 
ingly,  the  mother  swept  the  daughter  into  her  embrace. 

"My  little  Louellen,"  she  said,  "you  do  your  duty  and 
you'll  be  happy.  Only — don't  you  go  to  speculating  too 
much  whether  you're  happy  or  not.  My  land — where's  my 
handkerchief !"  She  fumbled  for  it,  blind  with  tears. 
"You  like  your  watch?"  she  asked,  trying  to  calm  herself. 

And  now  Louellen  came  to  life,  furiously.  She  gripped 
her  mother's  arms,  she  turned  toward  her  a  distraught,  dis- 
torted face.  "I  can't  do  it,"  she  cried.  "I  can't !  I  won't 
marry  him — I  hate  him !  Mother — mother — don't  make  me 
—it'll  kill  me!  It'll  kill  me!" 

Jane  West  looked  behind  her  and  pushed  the  door  to  with 
her  foot  before  she  tried  to  answer.  "Hush!"  she  said. 
"Louellen — don't  you  get  hysterical — now.  That's  all  it  is — • 
you're  hysterical.  You  had  too  much  to  do  these  last  weeks. 
My  goodness — hush — don't  cry — how'll  you  look — ?"  In 
spite  of  her  concern  for  her  child  she  cocked  an  agitated 
ear  downstairs.  Could  they  hear?  She  caught  up  Rena's 
salts  and  held  them  to  Louellen's  nose. 

"I  don't  care — I  don't  care,"  cried  Louellen.  "It's  not 
hysterics !  But  I  can't — I  can't — I  hate  him,  I  tell  you." 

Jane  West  went  back  frankly  to  primitive  methods.  She 
clapped  a  hand  over  Louellen's  mouth,  and  with  the  other 
she  gave  her  a  hard  quick  shake.  "Be  still"  she  said,  in  a 
voice  that  no  one,  not  even  Amos  West,  had  ever  disre- 
garded. "Stop  calling  out.  There's  nothing  the  matter  with 
you  but  hysterics,  I  tell  you.  You  act  like  you  had  no  sense. 
Get  a  holt  of  yourself.  Annie'll  be  back  here  in  a  minute. 
Everybody'll  hear  you!"  She  had  an  instant's  flash  of 
what  a  joyful  morsel  of  tattle  this  would  be  to  the  people 
downstairs  should  they  hear.  "Set  down,"  she  went  on,  and 
pushed  Louellen  into  a  chair.  She  went  to  the  washstand 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  115 

and  brought  a  wet  towel  and  wiped  her  face,  quickly,  care- 
fully. "Now  you're  all  right,"  she  said.  "You  give  me  a 
turn!" 

Louellen  sat  still,  drooping,  stunned  into  acquiescence. 
Her  mother  watched  her  anxiously. 

"That  you,  Annie?"  she  asked,  without  turning  her  head 
as  the  younger  girl  came  in.  "John  Henry  out  there  ?  All 
right.  You  go  on  downstairs  and  wait,  like  I  said.  Where's 
your  Pa  ?  Tell  him  I  want  him  to  stand  right  by  me." 

She  turned  back  to  Louellen.  "Smell  the  salts  again," 
she  said,  in  her  normal  voice.  "Now — you  come  along — " 

The  girl  rose,  obedient,  piteous.  At  this  moment  she 
could  not  combat — she  was  overpowered,  beaten  down.  The 
gold  watch  dangled,  a  significant  weight,  from  its  massive 
chain,  and  her  mother  tucked  it  into  her  bosom. 

"Now,  take  John  Henry's  arm — "  John  Henry  looming 
tall,  twitching  with  nerves,  held  out  a  stiff  elbow,  and  she 
laid  limp  fingers  in  the  crook  of  it. 

"Bring  her  right  on  after  me,"  commanded  Mrs.  West, 
and  turning,  stepped  majestically  to  the  stairs — but  at  the 
first  step  she  paused  to  see  if  they  were  following.  Yes, — 
it  was  all  right.  She  went  on  down. 

Below,  Annie,  pink  with  the  pleasure  of  being  so  much 
in  the  public  eye,  waited  beside  a  straight  and  stolid  Hance. 
The  faces  within  the  parlor  turned  with  impatience  toward 
the  door.  Mrs.  West  entered,  saw  that  all  was  in  order  and 
took  her  place  beside  Amos.  She  hoped  that  no  one  would 
detect  from  her  look  that  she  had  just  been  through  a  scene. 
No,  they  would  set  down  any  signs  of  agitation  to  a  mother's 
natural  emotion.  She  was  just  beginning  to  get  the  full 
force  of  the  shock.  She  watched  with  a  hard  suspense  that 
made  her  pulses  pound  in  her  wrists,  and  her  throat  swell 
and  hurt.  It  seemed  an  age  before  Louellen  and  John  Henry 
came  into  the  room. 

But  they  were  in,  and  behind  them  marched  Annie  and 
Hance,  straight  as  ramrods,  highly  self-conscious.  Louellen 
was  white,  whiter  than  she  had  been  upstairs,  her  face  set 


116  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

stonily,  her  eyes  dropped.  John  Henry  stared  straight  ahead 
of  him,  intent,  his  gaze  narrowed  and  burningly  eager. 

"Solemn  as  a  funeral,"  breathed  Clara  Devens  into  Rena's 
willing  ear. 

A  hideous  qualm  of  doubt  overtook  Jane  West  as  she 
saw  them. 

"But  I  don't  see  what  I  could've  done  differently,"  she 
argued  with  herself.  "The  minister  in  the  house  and  the 
wedding  dinner  cooked.  And  all  the  relatives !" 

No, — she  simply  couldn't  have  done  anything  else.  Of 
course  it  was  nothing  but  hysterics.  She  felt  a  little  upset 
herself, — there  was  no  denying  it,  these  last  few  weeks, 
and  all  this  fuss  and  to-do  and  hurrah-boys  round  the 
house  was  a  strain.  But  into  Jane  West's  unimpression- 
able mind  there  crept  a  question  that  she  could  not  sup- 
press— was  even  a  broken-off  marriage,  a  broken-off  at  the 
last  minute  marriage,  with  all  the  attendant  scandal,  with 
the  ravings  of  Amos  West — "He'd've  near  about  lost  his 
mind,"  ran  her  commentary — with  all  the  disrepute  and 
shaming  hue-and-cry  of  query  and  criticism — was  it  worse 
than  to  have  Louellen  marry,  feeling  as  she  did  ?  Louellen, 
her  firstborn,  her  nearest  and  dearest,  closest  in  sympathy 
and  understanding,  in  whose  girlhood  she  saw  her  own  girl- 
hood repeated,  like  a  dear  remembered  melody, — to  break 
or  mar  Louellen — involuntarily  she  clasped  her  hands  over 
her  heart  and,  deaf  to  mellifluous  swoopings  of  Bro'  Truitt's 
voice,  she  prayed  fervently  that  she  might  not  be  guilty  of 
such  sin.  And  she  knew  that  never  again  so  long  as  she 
lived  would  she  be  sure,  firmly,  decisively  sure,  of  what 
was  right  and  what  was  wrong.  This  tremendous  moment 
would  leave  her  certainty  of  judgment  warped  and  scarred. 
John  Henry's  hawk  profile — she  saw  it  now  with  a  divina- 
tion of  Louellen's  revulsion  against  it.  She  heard  her 
daughter's  faint  responses  with  a  stab  of  terror.  She  was 
driven  to  put  her  fine  white  linen  handkerchief  up  to  her 
face  during  the  prayer,  thankful  for  the  mask,  and  she  did 
not  listen  to  Bro'  Truitt's  petition.  Instead  she  was  beg- 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  117 

ging,  imploring,  "God — have  mercy  on  her — have  mercy," 
frantically,  futilely. 

The  babble  of  voices,  the  spontaneous  movements — like  a 
released  spring — of  the  children  who  had  been  severely 
quelled  while  the  ceremony  was  going  on,  the  change  of  the 
ministerial  orotund  into  the  flutings  of  secular  congratu- 
lations, warned  Jane  West  to  bring  down  her  handkerchief 
and  command  her  faculties.  She  moved  forward  and  es- 
sayed a  smile,  at  the  sight  of  Bro'  Truitt  imprinting  a  chaste 
kiss  on  the  bride's  cheek. 

"Let  me  be  the  first  to  call  you  Mrs.  Hyde,"  he  re- 
marked, playfully.  "And  to  wish  you  the  greatest  possible 
happiness." 

Jane  West  almost  shoved  him  away.  Once  more  she 
took  her  daughter  in  her  arms,  anxiously,  leaning  to  kiss 
her.  And  now  Louellen  lifted  her  drooping  eyes  and  looked 
full  at  her,  and  in  that  look  was  such  arraignment,  such  con- 
demnation that  Jane  West,  unimaginative  as  she  was,  almost 
cried  out  her  alarm. 

It  was  all  over  in  a  second.  Aunt  Lena  Hyde  was  there, 
openly  weeping,  but  telling  every  one  that  she  always  cried 
at  weddings  and  not  to  mind  her.  Aunt  Ella  Devens  was 
there  with  good  wishes  elegantly  phrased.  Other  aunts, 
cousins,  pressed  around.  Louellen  was  kissed  and  hugged 
indiscriminately.  John  Henry's  hand  was  nearly  shaken  off. 
Several  of  the  aunts  kissed  him,  also,  but  Great-Aunt  Virgie 
declined  this  pleasure  with  the  only  witticism  of  her  visit: 
"I  might  get  the  habit  of  kissing  other  women's  husbands, 
and  you  don't  know  where  such  as  that'll  lead  you" — a  state- 
ment provoking  infinite  hilarity,  which  so  pleased  the  old 
lady  that  she  repeated  it  at  intervals  for  the  rest  of  the  day. 

"Kind  of  a  near  shave,  there,  John  Henry,"  said  Uncle 
Tracy,  rallying  him.  "I  thought  Louellen  wasn't  going  to 
answer  up  at  all." 

"I  guess  not,"  answered  John  Henry.  "She  kept  me 
hanging  on  a  good  while  without  giving  me  much  satisfac- 
tion, but  once  she'd  promised  I  wasn't  scared." 


118  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

"It's  a  good  thing  to  have  a  woman  that's  not  too  glib 
about  answering  back,"  chipped  in  Uncle  Ben,  with  facetious 
intent.  "That's  not  my  wife's  trouble,  oh,  no,  not  her  trou- 
ble at  all." 

"It's  not  my  husband's  trouble,  either,"  said  Aunt  Marcia, 
neatly,  thereby  turning  the  laugh  against  the  men. 

There  was  more  clumsy,  good-natured  joking,  and  a  good 
bit  of  teasing  of  Annie  and  Rena  and  Clara,  and  the  other 
marriageable  damsels,  productive  of  many  blushes  and 
flutterings  in  the  virginal  dovecote. 

In  all  the  joking  and  laughter  and  general  commotion  it 
passed  without  comment  that  Louellen  was  very  quiet.  John 
Henry  made  up  for  it.  He  came  out  of  his  usual  shell  of 
unresponsiveness  and  standoffishness  and  laughed  and  joked 
with  any  of  them.  If  Louellen  was  still  pale,  his  face  was 
flushed  deeply  through  his  dark  skin.  He  was  assured, 
almost  boisterous.  He  kept  a  hard  possessive  grasp  on 
Louellen's  arm. 

Presently  the  elders  of  the  party  were  summoned  to  din- 
ner. There  was  not  room  for  all,  so  the  children  must  wait 
for  second  table,  at  which  there  rose  shrill  complaint,  quickly 
stifled  by  parental  admonition. 

"I  must  say  I  never  saw  a  more  elegant  looking  table  in 
my  life!"  was  the  appreciative  comment  of  Miss  Becca 
Simpson  as  she  balanced  her  rotund  little  self  on  a  chair. 
It  was  fitting  that  the  first  compliment  should  come  from 
one  who  was  not  a  member  of  the  family,  but  the  aunts 
on  both  sides  took  it  up  and  Jane  West  was  deluged. 

"It's  a  perfect  picture."  "Look  at  that  two-colored  jelly 
piled  up  in  blocks."  "I  haven't  seen  a  Charlotte  Polonaise 
since  I  was  a  girl — so  much  trouble  to  make."  "And  the 
wedding-cake — that's  the  last  feather." 

The  wedding-cake — a  glittering  white  castle  of  three  grad- 
uated tiers,  stood  in  state  on  a  high  crystal  platter,  with  a 
huge  square  Charlotte  Polonaise  at  each  side,  iced  in  pale 
yellow  patterned  like  lace  with  silver  dragees.  Amber  and 
ruby  jelly  made  jeweled  battlements  of  color  beyond  these. 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  119 

Tall  glasses  of  celery  were  sentinels  to  shining  silver  castors 
which  held  the  table  condiments.  This  was  the  center  of 
the  long  table.  At  each  end  were  tureens  of  soup,  plates 
of  bread,  biscuits,  butter,  pickles,  all  set  with  absolute  sym- 
metry. There  was  no  decoration — as  such.  All  was  there 
to  be  eaten. 

And  it  was  eaten.  After  the  soup  came  the  hams,  the 
turkeys,  the  chicken  pies,  the  vegetables,  endlessly.  And 
after  these  the  frozen  custard,  the  cakes,  the  pies,  the  sylla- 
bubs. Conversation,  which  had  slacked  over  the  heaped 
plates  of  the  former  course,  became  more  general  now. 

"But,  Louellen,  you've  not  eat  enough  to  keep  a  bird 
alive,"  said  Aunt  Lena  Hyde,  tactlessly. 

"Oh,  I've  had  plenty,"  said  Louellen. 

"I  don't  know  when  I've  had  such  a  meal,"  said  Tracy 
West.  "I'd  be  willing  to  bet  a  levy  against  a  fi'penny  bit 
that  I've  put  on  ten  pounds.  If  I  was  home  I'd  unbutton 
my  weskit." 

Then  Louellen  must  cut  the  wedding-cake,  and  a  big  knife 
was  put  into  her  hand.  The  icing  crumbled  with  sweet- 
ness, the  perfume  of  the  rich  fruited  loaves  went  strongly 
over  the  room,  dominating  all  the  other  spicy  food  odors.. 

"I'm  going  to  take  a  piece  to  dream  on,"  announced  Rena. 

Then  some  one  glanced  at  the  clock.  "You  better  be 
getting  your  things  on,  you  two,"  the  bride  and  groom  were 
warned.  "Takes  a  full  three-quarters  of  an  hour  to  drive 
down  to  the  Bridge." 

"And  the  children  are  near  'bout  s'tarved,"  added  an 
anxious  mother. 

Louellen  went  upstairs,  attended  by  Annie  and  Rena. 
She  put  on  her  new  brown  cashmere  mantle,  lined  with 
crimson,  trimmed  with  passementerie.  She  put  on  her 
brown  velvet  hat  with  its  short  curled  feather,  her  brown 
kid  gloves.  She  picked  up  her  crimson  and  brown  knot- 
work  purse,  that  Annie  had  made  for  her.  Her  brown 
leather  valise  was  declared  ready  and  snapped  shut,  and 
she  gave  a  last  glance  around  her  room. 


120  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

"Sis,  darling,  I'll  miss  you  so,"  cried  Annie,  sentimentally, 
tears  all  ready. 

"They're  calling  downstairs,"  reminded  Rena. 

Every  one  crowded  around  now,  and  Louellen  was  kissed 
and  hugged  again.  Then  John  Henry  hustled  her  into  the 
back  seat  of  a  double  buggy,  with  closed  curtains.  Rachel's 
brother,  Edward,  a  middle-aged  negro  with  dignified  side- 
whiskers,  was  the  coachman,  and  he  had  groomed  the  horses 
to  satin,  the  buckles  on  the  harness  shone,  and  he  himself 
was  clean  as  yellow  soap  and  hot  water  could  make  him. 

They  drove  off  amidst  much  shouting  and  waving.  The 
company  went  reluctantly  back  to  the  house,  Aunt  Ella 
with  a  restraining  hand  on  her  frisettes,  ruffled  in  the  No- 
vember air. 

"A  likely  looking  couple,"  "Louellen's  the  best  girl — "  "A 
real  advantageous  marriage  whichever  way  you  look  at  it," 
the  chorus  began  again.  But  Aunt  Marcia,  more  observant 
than  the  others,  confided  to  Aunt  Sarah,  "Funny  Jane  never 
kissed  her  good-by." 

"Well,  with  all  that  push  around — and  hurrying  so — " 
It  seemed  a  satisfactory  explanation  to  both  of  them. 


CHAPTER  THIRTEEN 

JOHN  HENRY  and  Louellen  drove  away  into  the  graying 
afternoon.  A  cloud  had  come  over  the  sun,  and  a  cold 
wind  blew  wildly  across  the  level  fields. 

"Feels  like  November,  sure  enough,"  said  John  Henry. 
He  took  her  hand,  furtively,  so  that  Edward  would  not  see, 
and  he  was  still  smiling,  animated. 

Louellen  nodded  her  head,  but  did  not  answer  or  look 
at  him.  On  the  pretext  of  arranging  her  mantle,  she  pulled 
her  hand  away  from  him,  and  then  took  her  purse  in  it 
to  prevent  his  getting  hold  of  it  again. 

"I  expect  you're  right  tired,"  he  said  tenderly.  "It  must 
have  been  an  awful  jam  around  there  these  last  few  days." 

"Yes,  I'm  tired,"  she  said.  And  with  the  words  she  felt 
an  immense  weight  of  weariness,  physical  and  mental.  She 
was  tired,  tired  of  battling,  fighting,  running  for  escape  and 
finding  none.  All  of  her  body  and  her  soul  ached  from  it. 
That  last  hopeless  outburst  before  the  ceremony  had  been 
the  final  effort,  and  now,  exhaustion. 

John  Henry  went  on  talking.  "Aunt  Lena'll  only  stay 
two-three  days  after  we  get  back,"  he  said,  as  if  he  had 
not  told  her  that  a  hundred  times  before,  "then  we'll  have 
the  place  to  ourselves.  She  wants  to  show  you  where  every- 
thing is,  and  give  you  some  of  her  pet  recipes — Aunt  Lena 
don't  believe  anybody  can  cook  for  me  as  well  as  she  can. 
And  there's  two-three  things  she  does  put  together  better'n 
I  ever  tasted.  You  ask  her  about  her  grape  ketchup." 

It  was  that  settled  marital  flavor  about  John  Henry  that 
had  always  irritated  Louellen.  She  had  to  remind  herself 
that  now  he  had  a  right  to  employ  it.  She  let  him  talk  on. 
She  had  her  thoughts.  She  remembered  that  night  of  the 
raided  camp-meeting  when  she  had  promised  to  marry  him, 
a  desperate  gesture  designed  to  bring  balance  to  her  toppling 

121 


122  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

world.  It  had  but  overturned  it  completely.  She  had  done 
it,  she  had  brought  it  on  herself.  She  was  married  and 
she'd  have  to  do  her  duty.  There  seemed  to  be  a  lot  of 
talk  concerning  the  duty  of  marriage,  first  and  last, — to 
women,  that  is.  Bro*  Truitt, — yes,  and  Sister  Truitt, — and 
several  of  the  aunts, — had  spoken  of  it  with  that  insidious 
unctuousness  that  promised  unpleasantness.  She  was  to  be 
a  good  dutiful  wife  to  John  Henry.  She  had  publicly 
avowed  her  intention  to  love,  honor  and  obey  him.  Through 
her  fatigue,  her  almost  drugged  fatigue,  she  felt  a  thrill 
of  ironic  laughter.  Love  John  Henry !  She  would  as  lief 
love  Bro*  Truitt. 

She  was  glad  when  they  reached  the  Bridge,  and  there  was 
a  chance  to  move.  John  Henry  gave  Edward  a  silver  dollar, 
and  the  negro  man  wished  them  his  "Bes'  respec's  an' 
hearty  good  wishes,"  but  his  melancholy  eyes  looked  at  Lou- 
ellen  with  profound  pity.  In  her  silence,  her  unresponsive- 
ness,  he  had,  with  all  a  negro's  primitive  shrewdness,  read 
her  state  of  mind.  He  touched  his  cap  and  drove  away, 
leaving  them  there  on  the  wharf  with  their  valises  beside 
them,  the  wide  river  a  ruffled  cold  expanse  of  steel  under  a 
steel  sky,  the  raw  wind  still  blowing  up. 

They  stood  there  without  speaking  for  John  Henry's 
trivial  talk  had  deserted  him.  With  their  noticeably  new 
clothes,  their  shiny  bags,  they  were  strange  figures  on  the 
little  old  gray  wharf.  There  seemed  to  be  no  other  pas- 
sengers, but  presently  the  warehouse  at  the  side  disgorged 
the  agent,  a  placid  little  man,  inquisitive,  chatty  and  kindly. 
He  spat  a  stream  of  tobacco  juice  into  the  water  and  ap- 
proached them.  Maybe  the  young  lady,  he  suggested,  would 
be  more  comfortable  in  the  waiting  room.  Warmer  there. 
Blew  up  cold  so  sudden  that  he'd  started  a  fire.  He  cer- 
tainly did  hate  these  first  cold  days,  seemed  like  they  pierced 
through  you  worse  than  midwinter.  Boat  was  a  little  late, 
but  she'd  be  along  pretty  soon.  He  pointed  a  soiled  stubby 
finger  and  squinted  up-river.  Wasn't  that  maybe  now  her 
smoke  ? 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  123 

They  looked,  and  saw  a  feather  of  black  laid  along  the 
horizon.  As  they  waited  the  feather  became  a  smudge,  and 
presently  took  definite  shape  and  increasing  size.  At  last 
the  long  white  steamer  swam  into  view  around  the  last  bend, 
as  graceful  and  untroubled  as  a  swan.  Then  sounded  the 
deep  blast  of  her  whistle.  They  could  hear  the  murmurous 
beat  of  the  paddles  timed  to  the  rhythmic  see-saw  of  the 
walking  beam.  Gold  and  bright  color  blazoned  on  her  great 
round  wheel  boxes,  warming  the  dull  day.  As  she  came 
alongside,  negro  boys  leaned  out  with  ropes  to  throw,  and 
the  little  wharf  agent  became  agile  and  muscular  and  flung 
the  knotted  hawsers  over  their  posts  with  one  hand.  From 
above,  the  Captain,  bearded,  ruddy,  leaned  from  his  post 
in  the  pilot  house,  like  a  benevolent  Jove  surveying  a  striv- 
ing but  hopelessly  inferior  humanity.  Now  and  then  his 
voice  dominated  the  universe  with  a  commanding  bellow. 
The  deck-hands  ran  out  the  gang-plank  with  a  concerted, 
not  unmusical  shout.  Stevedores  rattled  past  with  hand 
trucks  laden  with  freight,  and  rattled  back  again  with  local 
packages  for  Baltimore.  They  yelled  to  each  other  as  they 
ran, — and  a  languid  purser,  his  blue  cap  set  at  a  gallant 
angle,  watched  and  checked  them. 

In  the  midst  of  this  melee  the  saloon  steward,  a  proud 
fat  darky  in  a  white  coat,  came  out  and  took  charge  of  John 
Henry  and  Louellen,  capturing  their  baggage,  summoning 
them  to  follow  him  up  the  gang-plank  into  the  dark  cavern 
of  the  lower  deck,  thence  by  shining  brass-bound  stairs  to 
the  upper  saloon,  crimson  carpeted,  mirrored,  with  white 
walls  of  staterooms,  each  door  striped  with  gold.  "Bridal 
room,  yessah?"  he  asked  knowingly  of  John  Henry,  and 
conducted  the  pair  to  the  last  stateroom  aft,  reserved  for 
such  occasions.  It  was  twice  the  size  of  any  of  the  others, 
with  berths  of  shining  walnut,  draped  with  lace  curtains. 
There  was  a  corner  washstand  with  pink  china  ewer  and 
basin,  a  small  table,  a  chair,  a  mirror  fastened  to  the  wall. 

To  be  alone  in  a  bedroom  with  a  man  embarrassed  Lou- 
ellen painfully.  She  stood  by  the  door,  and  held  it  partly 


124  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

open.  This,  this  sort  of  abominable  thing,  then,  was  mar- 
riage. When  she  thought  of  the  coming  night,  she  felt  sure 
she  would  die.  Yes,  she  would  certainly  die.  She  could  not 
look  at  the  steward,  or  at  John  Henry  either. 

"I'm  going  out  on  the  back  deck,"  she  said,  and  left  them 
in  the  middle  of  the  payment  for  the  stateroom. 

Thank  heaven,  there  were  not  many  passengers,  and  those 
who  were  on  board  were  so  occupied  with  children,  lunch- 
boxes,  and,  among  the  men,  discussion  of  crops  and  politics, 
that  they  paid  but  casual  attention  to  Louellen,  hurrying 
past  them  with  her  eyes  down,  in  all  her  new  brave  wedding 
finery.  Her  cheeks  were  not  pale  now.  They  flamed  and 
burned,  as  if  the  blood  was  coming  through  her  skin.  She 
put  the  palms  of  her  hands  on  her  cheeks  and  could  feel 
them  burning  through  her  gloves.  Her  thoughts  whirled. 
She  looked  at  the  cold  gray  water  with  its  crest  of  white 
behind  the  boat's  stern,  and  wondered  if  it  was  very  painful 
to  drown.  With  her  hands  now  on  the  rail  she  leaned  over 
and  wondered  intensely  if  the  water  was  very  cold,  if  one 
choked  and  smothered,  if  the  cold  water  would  press  on 
one,  a  dead  and  clinging  weight. 

"Don't  stand  so  close,"  said  John  Henry,  coming  suddenly 
beside  her  with  that  hateful  grasp  on  her  arm.  "If  the  boat 
gave  a  lurch  you  might  go  overboard.  Let's  sit  down." 

She  waited  while  he  dragged  out  two  deck  chairs  from  a 
great  pile,  unfolded  them  and  placed  them  where  they  would 
be  sheltered  from  the  wind.  Save  for  them  the  deck  was 
empty. 

"Would  you  rather  be  out  here  in  the  cold  than  inside  ?" 
he  asked,  and  she  could  only  answer  him  by  sitting  down 
hastily. 

Then  she  found  speech:  "You  needn't  think  I'm  going 
to — to  stay  in  that — little  stateroom — with  you  to-night," 
she  gasped,  feeling  that  shame  would  certainly  kill  her,  but 
forced  to  tell  him.  "I— I'll  sit  up  all  night— out  here— 
or  anywhere — " 

"Now,  Louellen,  don't  be  childish,"  he  began  coaxingly. 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  125 

"What's  the  use  of  going  on  like  this  ?  We're  married,  and 
you — you  got  to  get  used  to  me  sooner  or  later.  You  don't 
want  to  make  a  show  of  yourself  before  the  whole  boat,  do 


you 


"I  don't  care — I — I — won't  go — in  there — " 

Her  voice  had  risen  a  little,  and  so  did  his.  "I've  stood  a 
good  bit  from  you,  first  and  last,  but  I'm  not  going  to  stand 
this." 

His  tone  implied  that  being  now  sure  in  possession  he 
need  no  longer  truckle  to  her  whimsies.  They  sat  awhile 
in  sullen  silence,  but  his  eyes  took  note  of  her,  her  color, 
her  quivering  lips,  her  soft  hair,  her  melting  slenderness, 
the  stormy  rise  and  fall  of  her  young  breasts  beneath  her 
mantle,  and  his  unappeased  hunger  for  her  laid  hold  on  him. 

"You — you  don't  understand,"  he  said,  hoarsely.  "You 
don't  know  what  you're  talking  about.  Louellen — if  you 
knew — how  I've  wanted  you — and  wanted  you — it's — " 
His  voice  reached  a  fanatical  cry.  "I've  questioned  the 
mercy  of  God — that  he  should  put  such  feelings  on  me — 
oh — there's  no  use  you  talking  like  this — now."  There  was 
a  trembling  zestful  emphasis  on  the  word.  It  was  as  if  he 
thanked  God  that  the  marriage  ceremony  sanctioned  his 
lust,  permitted  him  to  satiate  his  appetite. 

The  proud  fat  darky  steward  opened  the  door  and  stepped 
out  on  deck,  ringing  a  proud  fat  brass  bell,  which  was  the 
announcement  of  supper.  Yellow  light  from  the  upper 
saloon,  and  warmth  and  a  whiff  of  hot  cooked  foods  rushed 
out  to  them  with  the  opening  of  the  door  and  restored  their 
sanity.  Louellen  almost  ran  in  from  the  deck.  She  might 
have  been  escaping  from  one  of  the  larger  carnivora.  John 
Henry  followed  closely  after.  He  had  no  intention  of  be- 
ing more  than  an  inch  away  from  her  side  until  he  got  her 
safely  into  the  bridal  stateroom,  and  the  key  turned  on  the 
inside,  by  his  own  hand. 

More  brass-bound  stairs  and  soft  crimson  carpets  made 
a  path  of  glory  to  the  dining  saloon.  There  were  long  tables, 
already  set  with  plates,  knives  and  forks,  and  goblets  hold- 


126  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

ing  red  and  white  fringed  napkins  folded  in  jaunty  tri- 
angles. 

Waiters  came  hurrying  in  a  quick  procession  with  fried 
chicken,  fried  fish,  potato  cakes,  fried  oysters,  cornbread, 
beefsteak,  each  in  its  little  individual  dish.  Hot  biscuit, 
rolls  and  coffee  followed.  It  was  an  ample  meal,  excellently 
cooked,  clean. 

"You  didn't  eat  much  dinner,"  said  John  Henry,  in  a  low 
voice.  "You  ought  to  try  to  make  out  a  good  supper." 

They  sat  at  the  captain's  table  and  that  genial  dignitary 
offered  conversation  to  John  Henry,  as  man  to  man,  con- 
cerning the  weather,  and  the  possible  roughness  of  the  Bay 
in  a  storm,  and  the  lessening  of  travel  in  the  fall — until 
just  before  Christmas — and  such-like  nothings.  Women 
were  not  supposed  to  have  opinions  or  make  observations 
publicly  while  men  talked.  There  was  another  woman  at  the 
table,  but  with  two  children,  and  wholly  engrossed  in  see- 
ing that  since  the  supper  cost  the  extortionate  sum  of  fifty 
cents  apiece,  they  should  get  their  money's  worth.  Louellen 
was  thankful  for  that.  She  had  the  feeling  that  another 
woman  could,  merely  by  looking  at  her,  read  her  stark  mind. 

Supper  was  over  at  last,  and  there  was  nothing  to  do  but 
climb  again  the  elegance  of  the  stairs  to  the  upper  saloon. 
John  Henry  stuck  close  beside  her,  and  he  held  her  arm, 
and  unless  she  pulled  and  jerked  with  violence  she  knew 
she  could  not  get  out  of  his  grasp.  He  walked  along  beside 
her. 

"Louellen,"  he  gulped  desperately,  close  to  her  ear,  "don't 
look  so  scared.  You  make  me  feel  just  awful.  I — I'm  not 
going  to  hurt  you." 

She  hardly  knew  in  what  direction  they  were  going,  but 
he  did.  Arrived  in  front  of  their  stateroom  door  he  dex- 
terously unlocked  it,  and — with  a  swift  glance  to  be  sure 
that  there  was  no  one  near — flung  his  arm  around  her  and 
half-lifted,  half-pushed  her  over  the  threshold,  and  swung 
the  door  to  behind  them  and  locked  it. 

She  leaned  away  from  him,  pushing  him  back  from  her 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  127 

with  all  her  strength.  But  he  was  strong,  stronger  than 
she.  In  the  close  nearness  of  the  tiny  stateroom  he  seemed 
to  be  taller,  stronger  than  he  had  ever  been,  dark,  inexorable, 
craving,  devouring. 

"Let  me  alone — let  me  alone,"  she  begged,  sobbingly. 


CHAPTER  FOURTEEN 

THEY  returned  from  their  wedding  trip,  not  so  much 
changed  as  revealed  to  each  other.  In  John  Henry  Hyde 
the  humble  uncertain  tormented  lover  had  turned  to  a  hus- 
band demanding  and  receiving  ample  submission,  jealous 
of  his  power,  exacting,  autocratic.  He  was  thoroughly  in 
accord  with  Saint  Paul's  statement  that  the  woman  was  the 
weaker  vessel,  and  because  she  was  weaker  she  must  be 
dominated  and  ruled  strictly  according  to  man's  wishes  and 
ideas.  He  had  always  liked  to  "break"  the  young  colts  to 
harness.  This  satisfaction,  intensified  a  thousand  times, 
he  found  in  bringing  Louellen  to  his  will.  All  that  was  cruel 
and  relentless  in  him  warred  with  her,  submerged  her.  Her 
shrinking,  her  helplessness,  only  whetted  him.  Everything 
that  was  bestial  and  ugly  in  his  nature,  long  hidden  and  re- 
strained, but  stealthily  active  in  his  imagination  always,  now 
demanded  and  received  utmost  gratification.  That  she  was 
unwilling,  unresponsive,  added  a  morbid  relish  to  his  un- 
healthy enjoyment. 

Nor  did  he  spare  her  mentally.  He  blotted  on  her  clean- 
ness of  thought  all  possible  foulness  that  he  had  long  treas- 
ured unsaid.  He  was  a  gloating  reader  of  Leviticus,  and 
all  the  franker  and  more  flavorous  parts  of  the  Old  Testa- 
ment and  the  Apocraypha.  His  imagination  stank  with  such 
filth,  and  now,  to  his  wife,  he  could  reveal  it.  If  he  had 
married  a  robust  vulgarian,  as  wisely  obscene  as  himself, 
they  might,  perhaps,  by  mutual  revelation  have  relieved  their 
natures  of  such  abnormality  and  achieved  a  healthy  animal 
life  together.  But  Louellen's  stunned  and  unbelieving  loath- 
ing piqued  him  only  to  further  smearing  and  daubing. 

As  for  Louellen,  she  at  last  found  that  state  of  endurance 
wherein  one  suffers  passively,  but  not  actively.  She  could 
feel  and  hear  no  more.  Her  senses  refused  to  receive  any 

128 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  129 

further  impression.  She  was  benumbed,  stupefied.  She 
could  not  even  summon  a  combative  disgust  and  hate  for 
her  husband,  he  was  so  monstrous  to  her  that  she  could 
only  submit  in  a  dumb  agony  of  mind  and  body.  She 
seemed  to  have  fallen  into  such  an  abyss  of  foulness  that 
she  could  never  climb  out  again.  Her  innocence  was 
stripped  and  polluted.  She  was  so  far  away  from  the  girl 
of  a  week  before  that  she  could  not  imagine  herself  that 
untouched,  unstressed  creature.  She  was  a  hundred  years 
old,  nay,  a  thousand,  and  the  sight  of  her  youth  in  a  mirror 
was  only  one  more  lie.  For  she  had  come  to  feel  that 
qverything  was  a  lie.  That  all  the  talk  of  goodness  and 
happiness  and  duty  and  the  love  of  God — even  His  very 
existence — were  lies.  Why,  if  there  was  a  God,  should  she 
who  had  never  knowingly  done  an  evil  thing  in  her  life, 
have  been  netted  and  imprisoned  with  this  creature  of  slime, 
• — and  with  all  public  approbation  and  acclaim?  No,  there 
was  nothing,  only  unimaginable  wrong  and  evil  and  defile- 
ment. 

There  was  a  slight  mitigation  of  her  state  after  they  had 
returned  to  their  home.  John  Henry  was  at  once  less  with 
her,  claimed  by  his  fields,  his  barns,  his  stables.  Aunt 
Lena's  presence  checked  his  putrescent  tongue,  and  the  sen- 
sitive spinster  was  pleased  and  cheered  by  Louellen's  eager 
urging  of  her  to  stay  with  them,  to  defer  her  going  back  to 
her  people — at  least  until  the  winter  should  be  over.  The 
winters  up  North  were  so  severe,  Louellen  reminded  her 
anxiously,  and  she  was  not  strong.  And  she'd  be  so  wel- 
come to  stay.  Aunt  Lena  finally  decided  that  she  would 
stay  until  after  Christmas. 

"Though  I  should  think  you  two'd  want  to  be  by  your- 
selves," she  added,  a  little  reproachfully,  as  if  Louellen 
was  not  living  up  to  her  idea  of  a  fond  young  wife. 

There  was  a  certain  mitigation,  too,  in  having  work. 
Louellen  must  help  to  cook,  to  look  after  the  poultry,  and 
the  dairy.  There  was  no  servant,  like  Rachel,  at  home. 
And  she  had  to  learn  the  house  and  its  ways,  for  every 


130  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

house  has  ways,  to  a  housekeeper.  She  seized  on  all  of  this 
as  something  stable  and  normal  in  her  demolished  world. 
With  these  to  think  about  she  could  cover  up  the  things 
John  Henry  had  told  her,  push  them  back  and  down,  hide 
them  a  little  from  herself. 

"You  go  at  things  too  hard,"  Aunt  Lena  counseled  her. 
"You  scrub  when  there  isn't  any  real  need  of  it.  My  gra- 
cious, I  sh'd  think  you'd  want  to  be  dressed  up  in  your 
wedding  finery,  out  paying  visits  in  the  buggy,  instead  of 
down  on  your  knees  on  the  kitchen  floor." 

Louellen  could  not  tell  her — indeed,  she  only  knew  it 
subconsciously — that  if  you  could  get  tired  enough  you 
stopped  thinking,  and  that  her  wedding  finery  was  so  hateful 
to  her  that  she  would  have  burned  it  had  she  dared. 

On  the  first  Sunday  after  their  return  they  were  to  go  to 
church,  where  she  would  "come  out  as  a  bride"  and  then 
take  dinner  at  her  father's  house.  Aunt  Lena  would  stay 
at  home — by  preference,  as  she  knew  what  was  expected  of 
her.  Louellen  had  not  seen  her  mother  and  father  since 
her  wedding  day,  but  Annie  had  driven  over  for  an  eve- 
ning, escorted  by  Hance.  Amos  West  had  developed  a 
painful  sciatica,  and  been  confined  to  the  house,  and  Jane 
had  stayed  with  him.  The  truth  of  it  was  that  both  Lou- 
ellen and  Jane  dreaded  to  meet.  There  was  too  much  said 
and  unsaid  between  them.  Jane  had  not  liked  Annie's  re- 
port. "She's  awful  quiet,  Ma.  Not  a  bit  lively.  And  he 
kind  of  lords  it  over  everything.  Of  course  Louellen  always 
was  steadier  than  me,  but  when  I  get  married  I'm  not  going 
to  settle  down  to  any  old  seven-and-six  like  that,  right  off." 
She  put  her  head  on  one  side  like  a  wise  little  bird  and  added 
reflectively,  "I  don't  think  I  like  John  Henry  much,  Ma, 
even  if  he  is  in  the  family.  I  don't  believe  I  ever  did  like 
him." 

"You  oughtn't  to  say  things  like  that  about  John  Henry," 
warned  her  mother. 

"Oh,  I  wouldn't  say  it  to  anybody  else — but  it's  true." 

No,  Annie  had  not  been  reassuring.     Jane  West  had 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  131 

waited  for  Sunday  impatiently,  and  gone  to  church  fidgety 
with  conjectures  and  fears.  Amos  was  not  able  to  go,  so 
she  and  Annie  drove  in  alone.  Their  pew  was  second  be- 
hind John  Henry's,  so  they  could  see  Louellen  plainly,  and 
at  first  glimpse  of  her  her  mother's  heart  swelled  with  pity 
and  indignation.  This  frozen  white  creature  her  Louellen, 
her  freshness  already  dimmed,  her  youth  subtly  past !  She 
took  scant  satisfaction  in  Louellen's  black  silk  dress  with  its 
jetted  polonaise  and  plaited  underskirt,  her  ruched  dolman 
of  black  velvet,  though  when  they  were  made  she  had  been 
maternally  satisfied  that  Louellen  would  "come  out"  far 
more  magnificently  than  any  bride  the  congregation  had 
seen  in  years.  Jane  West's  eyes  detected  something  else: 
"Why,  she's  lost  flesh.  That  dress  is  loose  on  her !" 

Her  fiercely  scrutinizing  gaze  went  to  John  Henry,  com- 
placent and  high-colored,  satisfied,  dominant,  and  read  the 
answer. 

"Gorged,"  said  Jane  West  to  herself,  succinctly. 

Louellen  could  feel  her  mother's  eyes  and  thoughts,  was 
naked  in  body  and  mind  before  her.  This  she  had  not,  in 
her  preoccupation  with  worse  matters,  anticipated,  and  it 
brought  a  final  wrench  of  anguish  to  her  consciousness.  But 
she  kept  her  eyes  on  her  hymnbook  and  sang  with  the  con- 
gregation, dropped  down  and  bent  her  head  in  prayer,  and 
finally  composed  herself  to  give  ostensible  attention  to  the 
sermon.  She  wished  Bro'  Truitt  would  preach  on  forever. 
It  was  peaceful  to  sit  still,  even  with  John  Henry  at  her 
elbow,  for  he  could  not  speak  to  her,  nor  put  his  gross 
hands  on  her.  The  church  was  warm.  A  tingling  whiff 
from  Miss  Becca  Simpson's  clove-apple,  as  that  restless  little 
person  drew  it  from  her  reticule  and  sniffed  at  it,  came  to 
Louellen  and  she  closed  her  eyes  a  moment.  It  reminded 
her  of  her  childhood  when  she  and  Annie  had  occupied 
themselves  during  one  whole  Sunday  sermon  by  taking  the 
cloves  out  of  just  such  a  rustic  trophy,  and  had  somehow 
managed  to  do  it  without  drawing  their  father's  severe  eyes 
upon  their  occupation.  But — when  they  stood  up  to  sing 


132  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

the  little  black  spices  had  showered  to  the  floor,  and  the 
mischief  was  out. 

They  had  been  punished.  Louellen  remembered  how  she 
had  cried,  cried  as  if  to  break  her  heart.  But  all  that  was  a 
thousand  years  ago.  A  thousand  years  of  wrong  and  bit- 
terness and  misery  lay  between.  Now  she  was  old,  older 
than  her  mother,  infinitely  more  knowledgeable.  She  turned 
her  head  a  little  away  from  her  husband  so  that  she  could 
not  see  him,  not  even  from  the  corners  of  her  eyes.  It  was 
something  to  be  spared  the  sight  of  his  hands  with  the  long 
black  hairs  on  them,  and  that  predatory  hawk's  beak  of  his. 
Yet  she  could  not  lose  the  consciousness  of  his  presence, 
nor  of  his  domination.  She  wondered  how  many  Sundays 
she  would  have  to  sit  like  this  beside  him,  hating  him.  She 
wondered  how  many  years  she  would  have  to  live.  Her 
thoughts  beat  hard,  like  caged  wild  birds. 

It  was  not  so  difficult  to  speak  to  her  mother  as  she  had 
feared,  for  Annie  pressed  forward  and  seized  her  sister, 
and  in  the  impetus  of  her  grasp  Louellen  and  Jane  had  ex- 
changed hand-clasp  and  kiss  almost  before  they  knew  it. 
Bro'  Truitt  was  approaching,  too,  urbane,  chastely  jocular. 
He  must  shake  hands  with  them.  Other  friends  crowded 
near.  Miss  Becca  pulled  down  Louellen's  cheek  for  a  kiss. 
"I'll  be  out  to  see  you  soon,"  she  promised,  "and  you  better 
not  invite  me  to  stay  unless  you  really  want  me,  for  I've 
got  a  real  visiting-round  fit  coming  on  me,  and  it's  getting 
,worse  by  the  minute." 

"I'm  coming  too,"  declared  Rena  Massey.  "Let's  go  to- 
gether, Miss  Becca." 

Louellen  was  glad  when  all  this  was  over,  and  they  could 
get  outside.  "You  ride  along  home  with  John  Henry, 
Annie,"  said  Jane  West,  "and  Louellen'll  go  with  me." 

But  when  they  were  in  the  buggy  together  Jane  West 
offered  nothing  of  significance.  "I  was  sorry  not  to  come 
over  with  Annie  the  other  night,  but  your  Pa's  been  so 
poorly  with  his  rheumatics.  I  get  right  out  of  patience 
with  him — he  won't  do  what  Doc'  Tithelow  says,  and  when 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  133 

he's  worse  he  gets  mad.  I've  had  to  iron  his  back  till  my 
arm's  wore  out." 

"It's  in  his  back,  then,  this  time  ?" 

"Back  and  legs,  both.  Oh,  he's  got  a  dose.  He  suffers 
a  good  bit." 

The  subject  seemed  ended.  Louellen  did  not  start  an- 
other. 

"When's  Lena  Hyde  going  back  to  York  State?"  asked 
her  mother. 

"Not  right  away — maybe  she'll  stay  till  after  Christmas." 

Jane  West  heard  this  with  the  air  of  one  who  must  look 
a  thing  over  on  all  sides  before  delivering  opinion. 

"John  Henry  ask  her  to  ?" 

"He  don't  care,"  fenced  Louellen. 

"I  shouldn't  think — "  began  Mrs.  West,  and  then  stopped. 
"Well,  she's  not  hard  to  get  along  with,"  she  temporized. 

"No,  she's  real  pleasant." 

This  seemed  to  put  another  stop  in  the  conversation.  The 
trivialities  thus  far  spoken  meant  nothing.  Louellen  was 
aware  that  her  mother  was  with  all  her  strength  begging 
her  to  tell  her,  to  confide  in  her,  to  let  her  give  what  help 
and  comfort  she  could.  But  the  very  enormity  of  the  wrong 
she  had  suffered  made  her  keep  sdlejice.  She  would  have 
died  rather  than  put  into  words  the  least  of  John  Henry's 
marital  obscenities,  or  even  intimate  them.  No  loyalty  to 
him  held  her  back.  It  was  not  that.  It  was  for  herself. 
She  would  hide  from  every  living  soul  that  she  had  been  so 
besmutted,  so  shamed.  She  had  reached  a  depth  where  no 
one  might  stoop  to  raise  her.  Her  mother's  silent  insistence 
distressed  her,  but  could  not  compel  her. 

"Did  you  do  any  shopping  in  Baltimore?"  asked  Jane 
West,  at  last. 

Louellen  roused  herself.  "Nothing  much.  We  went  into 
Posner's  one  day  and  I  saw  some  tablecloths.  We  went  out 
and  had  supper  with  Cousin  Bob  Devens  and  his  wife. 
She's  real  sweet.  Very  dressy,  too." 

"What  did  you  wear?" 


134  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

"My  barege."  (She  would  not  say  "my  wedding  dress.") 
"She  thought  my  watch  was  a  beauty,  —  and  it  was  a  lot 
prettier  than  hers." 

She  looked  at  her  mother  with  troubled  love.  This  scrap 
of  gossip  and  compliment  must  serve  her  in  place  of  the 
truth  she  craved.  And  Jane  West  was  pleased. 

"I'm  glad  of  that.    What  sort  of  a  supper  did  they  have?" 

"Nothing  extra.  And  she  complained  all  the  time  about 
the  price  of  food,  until  her  victuals  almost  stuck  in  my 
throat.  Of  course  it  is  high  —  eggs  twenty-five  cents  a 
dozen!" 

"Mercy  sakes,  Louellen,  that's  awful!" 

Louellen  saw  that  she  was  diverting  her  mother  from  her 
purpose.  She  cudgeled  her  memory  for  more  details. 
"They  used  silver  forks  and  white-handled  knives  with 
silver  blades,  and  the  goblets  were  a  new  style,  thin  kind, 
almost  snap  in  your  fingers.  They  had  oyster  stew  and  hot 
biscuit  and  chicken  salad,  and  ice  cream  and  two  kinds  of 
cake.  And  strawberry  preserves,  with  a  syrup  as  thin  as 


"Had  she  made  'em?" 

"I  think  so.  I'd  never  have  put  'em  on  the  table  if  they'd 
been  mine  —  or,  I  might've  drained  off  the  syrup  and  cooked 
it  down  thick  with  more  sugar.  She  had  some  preserved 
melon  rind,  too,  but  it  was  kind  of  greenish." 

"She's  seemingly  a  poor  housekeeper.  What  kind  of 
cake?" 

"One  was  marble,  and  the  other  was  a  plain  loaf  cake 
with  raisins,  and  she'd  let  the  icing  get  too  hard." 

There  was  infinite  possibility  in  the  subject  of  the  Dev- 
enses.  Having  got  them  started  and  her  mother's  interest 
aroused,  Louellen  spun  them  out  to  great  length.  She  man- 
aged to  keep  them  going  until  they  reached  the  lane  that 
led  to  the  West  home.  The  horse  slowed  into  a  walk.  Both 
women  suddenly  realized  that  this  was  their  last  chance  to 
talk  alone  to-day.  Once  in  the  house  Annie  would  be  omni- 
present. 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  135 

They  realized  something  more — that  Jane  West  had  asked 
for  confidence  and  been  denied  it ;  that  Louellen  had  evaded 
her,  knowingly.  The  knowledge  was  a  barrier  between 
them.  Just  as  they  reached  the  house  Jane  West  made  one 
more  effort  to  surmount  this  barrier.  "You  know,  Lou- 
ellen," she  said,  hesitatingly,  "I'm  always  here,  and — and 
— thinking  about  you — and  ready  to  help  you — no  matter 
what." 

She  surprised  a  hard  faint  smile,  almost  of  derision,  on 
Louellen's  lips.  Her  answer  kept  the  barrier  definitely  be- 
tween them. 

"Yes,  I  know,  Ma,"  was  all  she  said. 


CHAPTER  FIFTEEN 

A  MARRIAGE  in  which  the  woman  is  unwilling  is  not  a 
marriage,  but  a  bondage.  Nor  is  it  a  bondage  that  lightens 
with  time  and  habitude ;  rather  it  darkens  with  hate,  deepens 
with  bitterness,  is  shot  through  with  pangs  of  swift  and 
terrible  loathing.  The  woman  who  must  live  in  such  bond- 
age must  either  break  or  harden.  There  was  enough  of  old 
Amos  West's  steel  in  Louellen  to  keep  her  from  breaking, 
and  slowly,  after  the  first  hideous  numbness  and  stupefac- 
tion was  over,  she  began  to  fight,  not  to  escape  from  her 
bondage,  for  that  was  unimaginable  to  her,  but  to  preserve 
something  inviolable  of  her  personality.  Her  vitality  re- 
vived, and  so  did  her  determination.  She  was  married  to 
this  man,  and  she  must  therefore  live  with  him,  but  she 
would,  in  essentials,  be  herself  and  not  wholly  his  creature. 
She  schemed  and  planned  for  it. 

It  began  in  small  matters.  He  disliked  change  with  all 
the  passion  of  a  set  and  narrow  nature.  It  disconcerted 
and  annoyed  him.  One  night  he  entered  their  bedroom  to 
find  that  every  piece  of  furniture  stood  elsewhere  than  in 
its  accustomed  place. 

"What  in  time  did  you  do  this  for  ?"  he  asked  with  instant 
irritation.  "I  hate  to  have  things  pulled  around." 

She  had  calculated  her  answer,  and  gave  the  only  one 
which  he  could  not  gainsay.  "Mother  always  moved  things 
every  once  in  so  often  so's  the  carpet  wouldn't  get  faded 
in  spots." 

His  avaricious  streak  warned  him  there  was  sense  in  this, 
so  he  assented,  grumbling.  She  smiled  to  herself  later,  lying 
beside  him  in  the  darkness,  that  faint  ironic  smile  which 
would  presently  shape  her  soft  and  yielding  lips.  She  would 
now  change  all  the  furniture,  in  all  the  rooms,  as  she  wished. 
He  could  no  longer  be  sure  of  finding  things  as  he  was 

136 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  137 

used,  when  he  entered.  It  was  a  little  thing,  but  not  little 
to  her,  for  she  knew  he  would  not  like  it,  and  yet  he  could 
not  blame  her,  nor  stop  her.  She  had  been  feeling  him 
out,  sounding  him,  detached  and  watchful  under  her  endur- 
ance. 

In  some  ways  he  seemed  to  her  like  her  own  father, 
whose  narrow  egotism  glorified  his  own  possessions,  and 
whose  stubborn  will  insisted  on  complete  domination.  But 
Amos  West  was  not  stingy  and  John  Henry  was. 

This  showed  when  in  the  usual  farm  life  routine  there 
came  the  question  of  wifely  perquisites.  It  developed 
that  Aunt  Lena  had  exchanged  the  eggs  and  butter  at  the 
store  for  necessities  of  the  house  and  table,  renewed  linens, 
small  utensils,  dry  groceries.  When  there  was  a  surplus  it 
went  unquestioningly  to  John  Henry  and  he  watched  the 
account  sharply.  But  Louellen  made  a  stand. 

"Mother  always  had  the  egg  and  butter  money  that  was 
over  at  home,"  she  said. 

"You  don't  need  it,"  said  John  Henry,  heatedly.  "You 
can  trade  in  for  everything  you  want,  and  you  got  the 
interest  on  that  thousand  dollars  your  Pa  gave  you  for 
spending.  That's  plenty." 

"Mother  always  had  it,"  she  persisted,  mildly,  but  watch- 
ing him  in  entire  detachment,  intent  on  gaining  this  small 
advantage.  "I'm  going  to  ask  Pa  if  she  didn't." 

John  Henry,  like  many  other  mean  men,  was  keenly  sensi- 
tive that  he  should  not  appear  so,  and  he  was  specially 
eager  to  stand  well  with  Amos  West.  He  could  not  bear 
to  have  his  father-in-law  know  his  smallness. 

"I  don't  want  you  carrying  tales  to  your  father." 

"It's  not  carrying  tales.  I  reckon  there's  no  harm  in 
asking  him.  He'd  think  it  was  funny  to  hear  you  accuse 
me  of  carrying  tales  to  him."  She  was  still  calm,  detached. 

The  matter  rested  there  for  some  days,  but  it  was  un- 
easily uppermost  in  John  Henry's  mind.  Amos  West  had 
recovered  a  little  from  his  rheumatism,  and  he  and  Jane 
were  to  drive  over  on  Sunday  afternoon.  On  the  Saturday 


138  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

before,  when  the  eggs  were  in  the  basket  and  the  butter 
in  the  tins  for  the  store,  he  told  Louellen  casually:  "I 
don't  mind  if  you  have  what's  over  from  the  trading  for 
yourself.  You  must  take  care  of  it,  though,  and  not  spend 
it  for  trash."  He  saved  his  face  by  the  admonition. 

There  was  no  slightest  trace  of  tenderness  in  his  love 
for  her;  it  was  all  cruelly  possessive.  Any  real  endear- 
ment he  would  have  thought  soft,  a  weakness,  and  there 
again  he  resembled  Amos  West.  And  in  his  stiff-necked 
fanatical  religious  fervor.  But  there  the  likeness  ceased, 
for  Amos  West's  Malachi-like  exterior  covered  no  fetid 
deeps  of  sensual  depravity.  He  was  cold  and  clear  all  the 
way  through.  Having  perceived  that,  Louellen  clung  to  it. 
It  helped  her,  strengthened  her  to  feel  her  father's  differ- 
ence in  that.  She  was  glad  that  her  mother  had  been  spared 
her  own  ordeal.  She  felt  older,  more  experienced  than  her 
mother. 

The  good  understanding  between  her  mother  and  herself 
was  gradually  renewed,  but  with  a  difference.  They  man- 
aged to  bridge  their  unspoken  chasms,  but  they  were  aware 
of  these  chasms.  Jane  West  was  never  quite  so  happy  as 
she  had  been  before  Louellen's  marriage.  She  was  never 
quite  at  ease  about  her.  The  lovelessness,  the  strain  of  her 
daughter,  was  always  apparent  to  her,  and  it  was  all  she 
could  do  to  be  decently  amiable  to  John  Henry.  She  was 
rejoiced  when  she  saw  Louellen  rousing  herself  from  her 
inertness,  asserting  herself,  and  gave  her  little  hints,  mere 
threads  of  suggestion. 

"There  never  was  a  man  so  set  he  couldn't  be  managed, 
but  it's  not  done  by  nagging  and  fussing.  Lots  of  women 
say  nothing  and  get  their  own  way — so  easy." 

And  again:  "Nothing's  as  bad  as  we  think  it  is.  We've 
only  got  to  live  one  day  at  a  time." 

Or:  "There's  always  some  means  to  get  round  things  we 
don't  like.  All  is,  we  mustn't  sit  down  and  succumb." 

She  mentioned — more  than  once — "Being  married's  no 
worse  than  being  single  after  you  get  used  to  it." 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  139 

< 

Louellen  understood  that  this  was  solicitude  and  counsel. 
She  listened,  with  her  new  hard  little  smile,  that  had  been 
born  with  her  first  thwarting  of  John  Henry.  All  very 
easy  for  her  mother  to  talk.  She'd  had  her  life.  She'd 
been  through  nothing — nothing — of  the  blasting  experiences 
that  had  seared  and  scarred  Louellen.  She  would  listen 
respectfully  and  make  no  answer. 

It  was  all  of  little  use.  Of  that  she  was  profoundly,  trag- 
ically sure.  There  was  no  escape  from  the  mesh  into  which 
she  had  flung  herself.  Her  Tittle  stirrings  of  conflict,  her 
small  victories  over  John  Henry  were  almost  as  humiliating 
to  her  as  if  she  had  yielded  to  him  and  bent  to  his  will 
in  every  petty  detail.  To  live  out  her  life — in  this  sort 
of  thing!  The  dreary  flatness  of  it!  But  she  could  not 
keep  her  from  going  on  with  it ;  something  within  her  forced 
her  to  it. 

There  was  the  matter  of  the  everyday  dishes.  She  did 
not  like  them,  and  he  would  not  buy  others.  "These  are 
plenty  good  enough.  Aunt  Lena  and  I  used  'em." 

Secretly  Louellen  questioned  Aunt  Lena.  "Do  you  really 
like  the  dishes — so  cracked  and  heavy?" 

"I  think  they're  awful.  But  John  Henry's  near.  Long's 
a  thing  c'n  be  used  he  wants  it  used.  And  the  best  dishes 
is  nice." 

Yes,  the  best  dishes  were  nice,  but  none  too  nice  to  use 
every  day.  Louellen  inaugurated  a  wholly  unnecessary 
cleaning  of  the  dining-room  cupboard.  She  piled  the  de- 
spised dishes  on  the  table,  and  mounted  a  step  ladder  to 
scour.  It  was  not  her  fault  if  the  ladder  buckled  and  she 
and  the  heavy  pail  of  water  fell  on  the  table. 

"You  might  have  killed  yourself,"  gasped  Aunt  Lena, 
rushing  downstairs  at  the  sound  of  the  crash. 

It  was  a  desperate  venture.  But  the  dishes  were  hope- 
lessly smashed.  Louellen,  in  spite  of  bruises  and  cuts,  looked 
at  the  table  for  supper  set  with  the  best  dishes  even  as  the 
Roman  conquerors  reviewed  their  chained  captives.  She 
reflected  that  she  would  have  broken  those  dishes  or  broken 


140  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

her  neck.     She  was   amazed  at   her  own   determination. 

"If  you  want  me  to,"  she  told  John  Henry,  with  assumed 
meekness,  "I'll  buy  a  new  set,  soon's  I  get  enough  money 
ahead  in  trading  at  the  store." 

But  something  wholesome  and  sound  within  her  con- 
stantly rebelled  at  such  petty  duplicity  and  subterfuge.  "I'll 
soon  be  old  and  hard  and  mean  and  hateful  if  I  keep  on 
this  way,"  she  told  herself.  "And  yet  I  can't  help  wanting 
to  trick  John  Henry,  he's  so  cock-sure  that  he  can  lord  it 
over  everything  and  everybody.  He's  so  bound  and  bent 
on  having  his  own  way." 

The  house  was  not  very  large  and  was  an  easy  one  to 
keep  clean.  She  and  Aunt  Lena  kept  it  going  admirably 
with  scant  labor.  Then  there  were  chickens  to  attend  to, 
butter  and  cheese  to  be  made,  but  these  were  not  great 
tasks.  For  diversion  there  was  prayer-meeting  on  Wednes- 
day nights,  service  once,  and  usually  twice,  on  Sundays,  a 
drive  over  to  the  Wests',  an  occasional  visitor,  a  more 
occasional  visit  and  a  Saturday  afternoon  trip  to  town. 

The  Hyde  farm  was  a  much  greater  distance  from  the 
town,  and  off  the  beaten  road,  so  there  was  not  so  much  com- 
ing and  going  as  there  had  been  in  her  old  home.  It  all  left 
Louellen  with  too  much  vacant  time.  Aunt  Lena  crocheted 
interminably,  in  a  rocking  chair  by  the  fire.  But  Louellen's 
youth  and  raw  discontent  chafed  at  such  inactivity.  Even 
the  extra  tasks  she  inaugurated — cleaning  where  it  was 
still  spotless  and  cooking  elaborate  dishes  were  not  enough 
to  keep  her  occupied.  The  nearest  neighbors  were  renters, 
and  therefore  not  of  her  own  social  class.  She  might,  now 
and  then,  go  to  see  Mrs.  Staten  or  Mrs.  Grable,  but  it  was 
no  real  interest  or  pleasure.  And  on  the  other  side,  fields 
adjoining,  was  Mart  Bladen. 

Early  in  her  days  of  marriage  she  had  discovered  that 
the  Bladen  house  was  visible  from  her  upper  windows, 
glimpsed  through  its  thick  trees.  She  had  not  looked  toward 
it  often,  but  sometimes  at  night  she  could  see  a  tiny  point 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  141 

of  light,  tempting,  twinkling.  At  first  she  hardly  noticed 
it,  she  was  so  dull,  so  wasted,  so  stupefied.  But  as  her 
forces  rallied  she  began  to  look  for  it,  to  think  of  it,  to  hope 
for  it  each  night. 

Miss  Becca  had  told  her,  as  part  of  the  neighborhood 
gossip,  that  the  Kemp  crowd  had  been  pretty  well  subdued 
since  the  sheriff  warned  them,  but  that  there  was  a  good 
bit  of  quiet  sport  still  going  on. 

"Playing  cards,"  said  Miss  Becca  with  relish,  "and  cock 
fighting,  and  of  course  drinking.  They're  all  scamps,  every 
one."  It  was  evident  that  Miss  Becca  enjoyed  the  pageantry 
of  scampishness. 

Rena  had  added,  privately,  that  people  said  Mart  Bladen 
was  drinking  twice  as  much  as  any  of  the  rest.  "Ever  since 
you  got  married,"  she  added  enviously  to  Louellen.  Rena 
wished  that  she  had  the  power  to  drive  a  man  to  wild 
courses.  Dan  Fisher  was  a  perfect  sheep  so  far  as  dash 
and  daring  and  despair  went.  That  is,  he  would  be  if  she 
essayed  to  make  him  despair,  but  she  did  not,  for  the  very 
practical  reason  that  she  might  get  no  one  else  she  liked 
better. 

Annie  had  confirmed  Rena's  statement  about  Mart.  He 
was  in  his  old  courses,  but  "Delia  Layton's  crazier  about 
him  than  ever.  Everybody  thinks  she's  going  into  a  decline 
and  all  because  she  can't  get  him.  He  won't  have  a  thing 
to  do  with  her." 

Louellen  had  hugged  that  bit  of  satisfaction  to  herself  in 
silence.  Oh,  she  was  glad,  glad  that  Mart  would  have 
nothing  to  do  with  Delia!  She  could  not  have  him,  but 
then,  neither  could  any  other  woman.  She  looked  out  at  his 
gleaming,  far-away  light  that  night  and  flung  her  gladness 
toward  it. 

The  winter  was  an  open  one,  mild,  with  little  snow.  When 
her  fits  of  restlessness  came  on  her  she  would  wrap  herself 
in  a  big  shawl,  tie  her  blue  wool  fascinator  over  her  head 
and  run  out  into  the  air,  prowl  about  the  barn  and  stables, 
pet  the  barn  cats,  give  the  chickens  an  extra  feed,  and 


142  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

sometimes  wander  out  across  the  fields,  keeping  well  away 
from  that  part  of  the  land  where  John  Henry  and  his  hired 
men  were  husking  corn.  A  good  half  mile  from  the  house 
across  the  pasture  ran  the  creek,  a  clear  shallow  stream, 
on  its  way  to  the  river  that  touched  Mart's  acres,  but  not 
John  Henry's,  dappled  in  the  sunlight,  its  eddies  filled  thick 
with  brown  leaves  from  the  trees  and  undergrowth  that  pro- 
tected it.  This  solitude  Louellen  loved.  There  were  low 
scraps  of  bank  where  the  grass  was  still  green,  little  pockets 
of  warmth  and  shelter  in  the  winter  sun,  and  when  she 
had  found  one  of  these  she  would  sit  there,  watching  the 
water,  dreaming,  forgetful,  almost  at  peace. 

And  it  was  here  that  she  saw  Mart  Bladen.  She  had 
been  listless,  languid,  visited  by  faint  headaches,  nausea, 
with  a  profound  sensation  of  physical  change  and  alteration. 
So  far,  she  had  concealed  it,  but  she  was  sure  that  she 
was  going  to  bear  a  child.  She  could  not  tell  whether  she 
was  glad  or  sorry.  The  heat  and  closeness  of  the  house 
oppressed  her,  and  she  had  come  out  to  find  her  favorite 
place  by  the  creek,  to  crouch  down  there,  and  shiver,  half- 
warm,  half-chilled,  and  let  her  thoughts  run  away  with 
the  dancing  water.  But  presently  she  heard  steps  in  the 
underbrush  and  among  the  dry  rattling  leaves  on  the  other 
side  of  the  creek,  heard  them  vaguely  for  the  water  made 
there  a  noisy  little  fall,  but  suddenly  he  had  appeared  on 
the  other  side,  his  gun  in  his  hand,  a  game  bag  slung  over 
his  shoulder. 

They  looked  at  each  other  with  no  surprise.  "I  wondered 
when  I  was  going  to  see  you,  Louellen,"  he  said.  "I  reckon 
I'd  better  not  come  over  there — yon  side's  his." 

The  easy  laughter  that  had  been  his  always  before  was 
gone.  Now  he  was  grave,  questioning,  older,  and  she  knew 
that  as  much  as  she  had  changed  he  had  also  changed,  going 
with  her,  her  companion  through  separation. 

"Ain't  you  going  to  speak  to  me?"  he  asked.  But  she 
could  say  nothing,  for  tears  were  in  her  throat.  He  stared 
at  her  intently.  "I  want  to  fill  my  eyes  with  you.  I  can't 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  143 

get  enough  of  looking  at  you.  Louellen — you're  not  happy 
with  him."  It  was  not  a  question. 

She  shook  her  head.    What  was  the  use  of  lying? 

"I've  had  time  to  think  it  out,"  he  said.  "You  thought  I 
didn't  care  enough  about  you,  didn't  you  ?  You  were  proud. 
You  felt  kind  of  cheap,  didn't  you?" 

So,  he  had  read  her  truly,  at  last. .  "How'd  you  guess, 
Mart?"  she  faltered. 

"I  don't  know.  It  come  to  me  times  when  I  was  studying 
about  it  all,  when  it  was  too  late.  If  I'd  only  a'  known, 
I'd  a'  carried  you  off  in  front  of  the  minister, — but  I  thought 
— oh,  shucks,  I  got  some  pride,  too,  you  know,  and  you'd 
turned  against  me  so,  I  kept  telling  myself  you  wasn't 
worth  it." 

She  could  only  look  at  him,  dumbly,  the  tears  rolling 
down  her  cheeks.  He  was  blurred  and  unsteady  through 
her  tears. 

"And  I  kept  telling  myself,  after  you  and  John  Henry  got 
promised  that  I  didn't  want  you  so  much.  That  he'd 
touched  you — and — and  kissed  you — that  you  wasn't  the 
same  to  me  after  that.  But  it  was  all  a  lie.  Look  over 
here,  Louellen — look  at  me.  I've  had  my  time  to  think  it 
out,  and  I  wouldn't  care  if  you  were  John  Henry's  for  a 
hundred  years,  I'd  still  want  you.  S'long's  there's  a  piece 
of  me  alive,  I'll  want  you.  First  I  thought  I'd  sell  and  move 
away,  but  then  I  knew  I  couldn't.  I  wanted  to  be  close 
to  you,  even  when  it  was  like  this.  And  if  you  ever  want 
anything,  or  need  anything,  or  there's  any  reason — I'll  be 
right  there,  and  you  only  need  send  me  word.  No  other 
woman's  coming  into  my  house.  I  got  things  all  twisted 
once,  but  I  shan't  twice.  I've  thought  it  out.  I  won't 
change.  I'm  glad  you're  not  happy  with  him,  but  I  knew 
you  wasn't  going  to  be.  'Twasn't  possible — you  belong  by 
rights  to  me.'* 

He  shouldered  his  gun.  "I  been  wanting  to  say  this  to 
you,  but  I  didn't  reckon  on  its  falling  out  so's  I  could,  for 
maybe  a  long  time.  I  can't  help  being  glad  you're  not  happy 


144  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

with  him,  Louellen.     And  don't  you  forget.     I'm  near  to 
you  all  the  time,  and  always  will  be." 

Her  tears  stopped  as  he  disappeared,  and  a  serene  warmth 
pervaded  her.  He  had  lifted  her  out  of  the  muck  where 
she  had  fallen,  he  had  given  her  a  place  apart  with  him. 
She  harked  back  to  her  mother's  half-forgotten  words,  "A 
place  in  her  feelings  where  things  can't  drive  in  on  her 
so  hard."  Mart  had  given  her  that,  and  he  would  be  there 
with  her,  always.  It  was  strength,  it  was  shelter,  it  was 
refuge  inviolate. 


CHAPTER    SIXTEEN 

"LOUELLEN'S  settled  down,"  thought  Jane  West  comfort- 
ingly. "I  guess  it's  because  of  the  baby  coming.  I  was 
right  worried  about  her  at  first."  Now  that  worry  was 
lost  in  the  excitement  of  looking  forward  to  her  first  grand- 
child. 

It  would,  of  course,  be  a  boy.  John  Henry  had  his 
heart  set  on  a  boy.  To  reproduce  his  kind  was  the  only 
fit  tribute  to  his  egotism. 

"Upon  my  word,  you  might  think,  to  hear  him  go  on,  that 
he  was  going  to  have  it  himself,"  asserted  Aunt  Lena,  her 
maiden  soul  moved  to  protest  at  this  apparent  slighting  of 
the  privilege  of  her  sex.  At  family  prayers  he  made  long 
and  urgent  petition  for  the  approaching  child,  with  an 
openness  of  allusion  that  put  Aunt  Lena  in  a  state  of  blushes 
and  painful  embarrassment.  She  had  long  ago  deferred  her 
going  back  to  York  State  indefinitely.  She  wanted  to  stay, 
and  she  knew  Louellen  wanted  her.  Her  crochet  hook  and 
knitting  needles  flew  as  never  before  on  bootees,  sacques, 
cradle  blankets.  She  developed  a  passion  for  fine  hem- 
stitching, scalloping.  "Little  teenty  weenty  things,"  she 
said,  reveling.  "Sleeves  no  bigger'n  my  thumb.  It's  right 
down  cunning  to  make  'em." 

Louellen  smiled  at  her  delight.  Louellen  had  learned  to 
smile  again,  not  the  still  ironic  smile  of  her  first  months  of 
marriage,  not  her  old  girlish  spontaneous  smile,  but  a  smile 
of  far-away,  remote  places,  where  she  could  look  at  the 
world  across  unattainable  distances  and  be  amused  by  the 
futility  of  it. 

She  had  not  ceased  to  find  ways  to  thwart  John  Henry. 
Doctor  Tithelow  was  her  ally  there.  The  doctor,  alert  to 
all  knotted  situations,  had  asked  her  at  his  first  visit  to 

145 


146  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

him,  bluntly:  "Do  you  want  me  to  tell  your  husband  to 
sleep  in  another  room?" 

"Oh,  will  you?"  she  cried,  with  quick  intensity. 

And  Doctor  Tithelow  had  done  it,  with  a  spice  of  cheerful 
malice,  adding  a  rough  plain  admonition.  But  it  was  Louel- 
len  who  moved  from  the  connubial  four-poster  to  a  small 
room  down  the  hall,  a  small  room  with  a  narrow  white  bed, 
almost  like  her  bed  at  home.  She  felt  secure  there  and 
she  reveled  in  the  luxury  of  its  privacy.  It  was  sheer 
rapture  not  to  feel  her  husband's  hot  grasp,  nor  later,  to 
lie  awake  beside  him,  hating  him  for  his  heavy  satiated 
sleep,  hating  her  own  body  that  it  should  be  desirable.  It 
was  intensified  rapture  that  her  absence  from  his  side  irked 
and  irritated  him  so. 

She  thought  very  little  about  the  coming  child,  it  had  no 
reality  for  her.  She  was  two  people, — a  woman  who  lived 
in  a  practical  plain  round  of  accustomed  things,  accomplish- 
ing mechanically,  in  word  and  deed,  all  that  was  required 
of  her.  The  other  was  a  flitting  spirit,  absorbed  in  a  fan- 
tastic make-believe  that  had  in  it  no  gleam  of  truth,  nor 
hope  of  realization.  She  would  not,  consciously,  imagine 
herself  the  wife  of  Mart  Bladen,  but  his  face  and  his  words 
at  that  meeting  by  the  creek  side  constantly  preoccupied 
her  and  kept  her  quiet  in  her  new  discomforts  and  nervous 
stresses,  increased  her  lassitudes.  Not  that  she  wanted  to 
see  him  again,  or  made  any  effort  to  do  so — it  was  the 
custom  of  the  time  that  women  who  are  to  bear  children 
should  seclude  themselves  as  if  it  was  a  shameful  business 
instead  of  a  normal,  desirable  state — but  just  the  memory 
of  that  one  sight  of  him,  and  his  understanding,  and  the 
love  and  patience  in  his  voice — as  different  from  that  Mart 
Bladen  of  six  months  ago  as  Louellen  Hyde  was  different 
from  Louellen  West — just  these  were  enough  to  gild  her 
days.  And  then,  there  was  that  twinkling  light,  a  living 
spark  of  remembrance  through  the  night.  She  could  lie  in 
her  little  narrow  white  bed  and  see  it  shining  for  her.  It 
occurred  to  her  how  furious,  how  filled  with  poison  spleen 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  147 

John  Henry  would  be  if  he  knew  that  the  mother  of  his 
desired  son-to-be  watched  for  Mart  Bladen's  light  from  her 
bed. 

John  Henry  had  apparently  decided  to  forget  that  Mart 
was  ever  his  rival  and  had  resumed  an  unintimate  but  neigh- 
borly attitude,  based  on  an  occasional  lending  or  borrowing 
of  implements  or  tools,  a  prompt  hail  of  greeting.  There 
could  never  be  any  real  friendliness  between  the  two;  they 
were  too  diverse.  But  John  Henry  did  not  hate  Mart  as 
Amos  West  did.  Instead,  it  rather  tickled  him  to  say  that 
Mart  was  his  own  worst  enemy,  and  feel  superior  to  him, 
stick  out  a  smiling  scornful  lip  at  his  reputed  follies.  John 
Henry  was  secure  in  his  gratified  egotism.  He  had  got 
the  woman  he  wanted  and  broken  her  to  him.  He  was 
prospering.  He  stood  well  in  the  community.  If  he  pinched 
pennies  in  a  bargain  he  did  not  pinch  them  when  the  plate 
was  passed  in  church,  for  he  was  jealous  of  his  reputation 
there.  He  enjoyed  his  religion,  and  wanted  to  be  looked  up 
to  in  the  congregation.  A  strong  hell-and-damnation  doc- 
trine suited  him,  because  he  was  so  sure  of  his  own  worth. 
He  liked  to  give  his  experience  in  class-meeting,  to  pray  in 
the  prayer  meetings,  and  he  looked  forward  to  being  Sunday 
School  superintendent  when  the  present  incumbent,  dodder- 
ing old  Henry  Bishop,  gave  up  that  post.  Where  some 
men  seek  political  preferment,  his  ambition  was  prominence 
in  the  church.  When  he  was  appointed  a  lay  delegate  to 
the  annual  conference,  he  swelled  with  pride,  and  would 
not  have  missed  going  for  anything  imaginable,  though  it 
was  very  near  the  time  for  his  child  to  be  born,  and  Jane 
West  plainly  told  him  that  she  thought  he  should  stay  at 
home. 

"Let  him  go,  Ma ;  don't  say  a  word,"  said  Louellen.  "I'd 
rather  he  was  away,  to  tell  you  the  truth." 

"Men  ain't  much  help  round  the  house  at  such  a  time," 
said  Jane  West,  "but — s'long  as  it's  the  first —  Still,  if 
you  feel  that  way—  She  ignored  the  deeper  issue  of 
why  Louellen  should  feel  that  way. 


148  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

Jane  West  had  come  to  stay  with  her  daughter  through 
her  ordeal.  Her  principal  duty,  she  found,  was  not  to  cheer 
and  comfort  and  encourage  Louellen,  who  was  calm  almost 
to  indifference,  but  to  use  the  same  arts  on  Aunt  Lena, 
who,  now  that  the  event  was  so  near,  had  developed  an 
acute  apprehension  which  expressed  itself  in  weeping  and 
doleful  prophecies.  She  sobbed  over  the  dishpan  and  salted 
the  bread  with  tears,  and  her  conversation  was  of  nothing 
but  those  who  had  died  in  childbirth,  or  brought  forth 
children  who  were  hideously  marked.  Jane  West  made 
short  shrift  of  all  this,  and  Aunt  Lena  brightened  visibly 
under  her  vigorous  treatment. 

"What'd  you  let  her  stay  on  for  anyway?"  asked  Jane 
West,  wonderingly,  of  Louellen  in  confidence.  "She'd  drive 
me  wild." 

"I  don't  listen  to  her,"  said  Louellen. 

"You  don't  listen  to  much  of  anything,  seems  to  me,"  said 
her  mother.  "I  don't  like  it,  you  to  be  so  limp  and  lack- 
a-daisy.  But  I'm  thankful  enough  that  you  ain't  scared. 
Some  women  take  on  so." 

"I'm  not  scared,"  said  Louellen.  She  was  lying  on  the 
lounge  in  the  sitting  room,  wrapped  in  a  dark  shawl  that 
made  her  eyes,  ringed  with  purplish  circles,  unnaturally 
dark  and  shadowy.  She  turned  her  head  and  looked  full 
at  her  mother.  It  seemed  to  her  that  the  time  had  come 
to  speak  out.  "I  don't  care  whether  I  live  or  die,  or 
whether  the  child  lives  or  dies,"  she  said,  clearly,  coldly. 

"My  soul,  Louellen,  you  mustn't  say  things  like  that. 
It's  a  sin,"  exclaimed  Jane  West,  distressed  and  shocked. 

"Then  it's  a  sin  to  speak  the  truth,"  said  Louellen.  Her 
shadowed  eyes  stared  at  her  mother,  seemed  to  dare  her  to 
come  into  the  open  and  face  the  wrongness  of  her  mar- 
riage with  her.  Jane  West's  eyes  fell  before  them.  She 
could  not  take  that  dare. 

"You're  just  wrought  up  and  not  in  a  natural  state,"  she 
said.  "I'm  going  to  get  you  a  cup  of  tea.  Doc  Tithelow 
said  you  might  have  tea,  didn't  he?" 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  149 

"Oh  yes,  he  said  I  might  have  tea." 

"She  ain't  settled  down  at  all,"  ran  the  burthen  of  Jane 
West's  troubled  thoughts,  as  she  busied  herself  with  the  hot 
water  and  teapot.  "It's  all  seething  round  inside  her,  just 
the  same.  Oh,  my  goodness — I  wish — "  but  she  would 
not  go  on  with  what  she  wished.  Louellen  was  a  wife  and 
would  soon  be  a  mother.  She  must  submit  to  the  inevitable 
lot  of  womankind.  After  the  baby  came,  reflected  Jane 
West,  she'd  feel  differently. 

The  baby  did  not  arrive  until  John  Henry,  very  impor- 
tant and  conversational,  had  been  back  from  conference 
two  days.  It  was  not  an  easy  birth.  For  twenty  hours 
Doctor  Tithelow  did  not  stir  from  Louellen's  bedside,  and 
when  it  was  over  he  was  as  exhausted  as  she.  Aunt  Maria 
Wheeler,  his  colored  nurse  for  baby  cases,  who  had  been 
summoned  a  little  before  him,  opened  the  door  of  the  spare 
room  and  motioned  him  into  it. 

"You  lay  down  a  spell,"  she  said.  "Us  women  kin  tek 
care  of  'er  now.  I  gwine  wash  en  dress  de  chile,  whilst 
she's  drapped  off  to  sleep." 

"Go  down  and  tell  him  he's  got  a  daughter,"  said  Doctor 
Tithelow,  wearily,  nodding  downstairs  where  he  knew  John 
Henry  waited.  "I  believe  I  will  take  an  hour's  rest.  I'm 
tuckered  out.  Don't  forget  to  call  me." 

So  it  was  from  the  lips  of  Aunt  Maria  that  John  Henry 
learned  of  his  disappointment.  He  had  counted  so  confi- 
dently on  a  son  that  at  first  he  was  incredulous. 

"I'm  going  up  and  see  the  Doctor,"  he  declared  sharply. 
But  Aunt  Maria,  a  stately  creature,  barred  the  way. 

"You  ain'  got  good  sense,  man,"  she  said  scornfully. 
"Doc  Tithelow  cain'  change  dat  baby  fum  er  gal  to  er 
boy.  Beside,  he  need  his  res'.  Whilst  you  been  settin'  down 
heah  taken  yo'  ease,  he  been  er  strivin'  en  er  strugglin'  to 
bring  dat  chile  inter  de  worl'  widout  killin'  off  yo'  po'  li'l 
wife.  Ha'd  a  birth  ez  I  yever  see." 

She  retired  with  the  majesty  of  an  offended  queen.  There 
was  nothing  left  for  John  Henry  to  do  but  to  pace  about 


150  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

and  tell  Aunt  Lena  to  shut  up  crying.  A  shrill  strange 
wail  from  above  where  Aunt  Maria  was  washing  and  dress- 
ing the  new-born  little  girl  was  evidence  that  Louellen  had 
succeeded  in  thwarting  him  once  more.  After  a  while  it 
was  still,  so  he  ventured  out  into  the  hall  and  mounted  the 
stairs.  Louellen  had  fallen  into  heavy  sleep  and  her  mother 
was  sitting  beside  her.  John  Henry  tiptoed  in. 

"How  is  she  ?"  he  whispered  anxiously,  to  Jane  West. 

"All  right  now,  I  reckon,  but  it  was  terrible."  Her  stout 
face  was  aged  in  lines  of  acute  vicarious  suffering;  she 
looked  withered  and  drawn  and  old.  "It  was  worse  than 
having  one  of  my  own,"  she  went  on.  "You  seen  the  baby  ?" 

Louellen  stirred  and  opened  weary  sleep-drugged  eyes, 
looked  at  her  husband.  Seeing  her  awake,  he  came  further 
into  the  room,  took  hold  of  her  hand. 

"Well,  Louellen,"  he  said.  "How  you  feeling?  Right 
hard  time  you  had,  I  expect.  And  it's  only  a  girl  after  all. 
Maybe  we'll  have  better  luck  next  time." 

"Ain't  you  got  any  decency?"  Jane  West  flung  at  him 
in  outrage.  "Talking  like  that !  You  better  go  downstairs 
again.  Only  a  girl!  And  better  luck  next  time!  I  don't 
know  what  to  think  of  you." 

Thus  lashed  for  the  second  time  within  the  hour  by  femi- 
nine anger  John  Henry  retreated  sourly.  After  he  had 
gone  Jane  West  stirred  about  the  room  a  little,  shaking  with 
her  rage.  Louellen  had  not  spoken.  At  last  her  mother 
could  not  bear  it.  She  advanced  again  to  the  bedside.  "Is 
that  what  he's  like?"  she  asked,  the  words  coming  breath- 
lessly. 

Louellen  nodded  weakly  from  among  her  pillows. 

Jane  West  dropped  down  into  her  chair  and  put  her  hands 
over  her  face.  "I'll  never  forgive  myself,"  she  said. 

Presently  she  felt  Louellen's  fluttering  tremulous  touch 
upon  her  shoulder.  "Don't,"  she  said.  "I've  stopped  mind- 
ing— so  much.  Crying  don't  help.  I  reckon  I've  cried  all 
the  tears  in  the  world  already." 

There  were  great  vistas  of  unspoken  understanding  and 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  151 


sympathy  about  them,  and  withal,  submission.  Short  of 
extreme  physical  abuse  no  respectable  woman  left  her  hus- 
band. A  marriage  meant,  without  evasion,  unmitigated 
union  until  death.  This  they  knew.  Louellen  must  go  on. 
But  now  her  mother  would  go  on  with  her. 

"I  only  kind  of  half-suspicioned,"  said  Jane  West,  at 
last.  "I  never  really  got  at  the  truth  of  him.  My  poor 
Louellen — my  child." 

It  was  all  the  excuse  she  had  to  offer.  She  thought  over 
it  a  while,  looking  absently  out  of  the  window.  Louellen, 
too  worn,  too  dragged  to  answer,  had  again  fallen  asleep. 
Dusk  had  dropped  down,  a  nebula  of  softest  blue,  linking 
the  sky  and  the  earth  into  an  uncertain  world  of  beauty. 
Far  away,  through  this  impalpable  veil  of  enchanted  dis- 
tance and  darkness,  shone  the  light  from  Mart  Bladen's 
window,  and  Jane  West,  gazing,  saw  it,  and  knew  its  source. 

"My  soul, — I  wish't  she'd've  married  Mart,"  she  said 
aloud,  and  glanced  about  her  with  instant  guilt  that  such 
a  sentiment,  so  subversive  to  all  propriety  and  morals, 
should  have  crossed  her  lips.  Louellen  stirred  in  her  bed, 
turned,  still  asleep,  a  little  toward  the  window.  Perhaps 
she  dreamed  her  mother's  words  true. 


CHAPTER  SEVENTEEN 

IN  the  likeness,  soen  evident,  of  his  first  born  to  him, 
John  Henry  Hyde  found  a  certain  consolation  for  the  dis- 
appointment of  her  sex.  Little  Virginia — immediately  Virgie 
— was  a  thin  brown  restless  baby,  a  miniature  replica  of 
her  father,  even  to  the  bend  of  her  diminutive  nose.  "She's 
her  father  over  again,"  that  rather  meaningless  set  form  of 
local  compliment  became  in  this  case  quite  true.  And 
there  was  no  question  but  what  she  had  his  will.  She 
wanted  what  she  wanted  when  she  wanted  it,  and  if  it  did 
not  at  once  appear,  she  would,  according  to  Aunt  Lena, 
"yell  the  roof  off."  Aunt  Lena's  enthusiasm  for  children 
waned  perceptibly  in  the  moments  of  little  Virgie's  infantile 
passions. 

Louellen  gathered  her  strength  slowly.  The  child  was  a 
care,  but  she  was  faithful  to  it.  If  she  felt  no  overflow 
of  maternal  affection  for  it,  she  was  none  the  less  a  patient 
and  painstaking  mother,  following  out  all  of  Doctor  Tithe- 
low's  directions  for  the  baby  far  more  carefully  than  she 
did  those  commands  he  laid  on  her  about  herself.  He 
complained  bitterly  of  this.  "You'll  give  me  a  black  eye 
round  about,  if  you  don't  mind  what  I  say,"  he  grumbled. 
"I  tell  you  you  mustn't  try  to  do  heavy  housework.  Now 
you  be  sensible,  and  don't  let  me  catch  you  sweeping  again 
till  I  tell  you  you  can." 

Slowly  she  grew  stronger,  more  herself.  Yet  with  a 
difference.  She  had  her  mother  now  for  ally  and  support, 
and  this  was  a  steady  help  to  her.  Jane  West  drove  to  the 
Hyde  farm  whenever  she  could,  sat  with  her  daughter 
through  long  days  of  comfortable  talk,  tendance  on  the 
baby,  sewing,  all  bound  into  companionship.  Or  she  would 
have  Louellen  come  and  bring  the  baby  home  with  her, 
and  she  and  Louellen  would  watch  Annie's  raptures  over 

152 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  153 

the  child,  laughing  to  it,  teasing  it,  playing  with  it,  blowing 
kisses  into  its  soft  little  neck  with  absurd  pleasure  in  her 
irresponsibility.  At  such  times  Louellen  and  her  mother 
would  read  each  other's  minds,  each  thankful  that  Annie 
was  light-hearted,  untouched. 

Miss  Becca  Simpson  came,  to  dangle  glittering  fascinat- 
ing beads  before  the  baby  and  to  remark  that  she  did  think 
'twas  a  pity  the  little  thing  had  to  look  so  like  her  Pa, 
but  that  maybe  she'd  grow  out  of  it.  John  Henry,  she 
further  remarked,  couldn't  set  up  as  a  beauty,  even  if  he 
was  a  pillar  in  the  church. 

Came  also  Rena  Massey,  to  confide  that  she  and  Dan 
were  going  to  be  married  at  Christmas.  In  tittering  sly 
whispers  she  begged  Louellen  to  tell  her  something  about 
marriage  in  its  more  personal  aspects,  and  was  startled 
and  offended  by  Louellen's  shuddering  silence.  But  pres- 
ently she  was  chattering  away  about  her  silk  dresses — she 
was  to  have  three — her  ruffled  petticoats,  her  kid  gloves, 
the  brooch,  clasped  hands  of  coral  on  a  gold  mount,  that 
Dan  had  given  her.  Of  course  they  would  have  to  live  at 
home  with  her  folks,  at  first,  Rena  conceded,  but  that  would 
save  her  having  to  do  housework.  She  didn't  want  a  house 
unless  they  could  have  a  big  one,  with  Brussels  carpets  and 
crystal  chandeliers,  and  plush  furniture,  and  gilt  framed 
pierglasses.  She  spoke  as  if  such  a  house  was  already  quite 
within  her  grasp.  She  could  even  now  see  her  own  re- 
splendent reflection  in  the  pierglasses. 

Three  months  after  little  Virgie  had  wept  her  way  into 
the  world  Louellen  knew  that  she  was  to  have  another 
child.  At  first  she  was  utterly  dismayed,  the  rigors  of 
Virgie's  birth  being  fresh  in  her  memory.  Then  she  real- 
ized that  it  offered  her  again  the  inestimable  privilege 
of  her  little  isolated  room,  her  untroubled  sleep.  Deliber- 
ately she  affected  weakness  and  illness  that  she  did  not  feel, 
requiring  the  presence  of  Doctor  Tithelow.  He  came,  and 
divined  her  need,  as  before.  His  second  admonition  to 
John  Henry  was  tinged  with  professional  satire.  He  en- 


154  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

joyed  the  discomfiture  of  the  other  man's  desire,  his  anger 
at  its  denial. 

"You  shouldn't  have  married  a  woman  who  isn't  strong," 
Doctor  Tithelow  told  him,  finally.  "You'll  kill  your  wife. 
Some  one  of  these  days  I'm  going  to  publish  broadcast 
over  the  county  the  men  I  know  who're  not  fit  to  be  mar- 
ried." He  said  it  with  insolence,  and  with  authority.  He 
had  divined  the  essential  coward  in  John  Henry's  nature, 
and  his  hypocrisy,  also  the  passionate  need  of  the  man  to 
stand  well  in  the  eyes  of  the  public.  It  amused  him  to 
see  dark  angry  blood  creep  up  to  John  Henry's  cheekbones, 
to  know  that  he  would  not  risk  open  resentment. 

Coming  away  from  the  Hyde  farm,  he  stopped  in  to  see 
Mart  Bladen.  The  disgust  of  the  interview  was  still  with 
him,  and  he  voiced  a  bit  of  it  to  Mart. 

"I  don't  like  your  neighbor  here,"  he  said  briefly. 

"I'm  none  so  fond  of  him  myself,"  answered  Mart.  "But 
he  keeps  his  fences  up  and  don't  bother  me  any.  What's 
he  been  up  to  now?" 

"He's  a  hog, — no,  that's  a  libel  on  a  decent  worthy  ani- 
mal. What  beats  me  is  how  a  fine-grained  nice  girl  like 
Louellen  West  ever  came  to  marry  him.  I'd  have  thought 
the  mere  look  of  the  man  would  have  been  enough." 

"Say,"  demanded  Mart,  bluntly,  "has  John  Henry  been 
abusing  Louellen?" 

"He  hasn't  beat  her,  if  that's  what  you  mean." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

Doctor  Tithelow  considered.  He  was  notoriously  close- 
mouthed  concerning  his  patients.  That  was  part  of  his 
power  over  them.  "I  reckon  I  said  too  much,"  he  admitted 
at  last  frankly.  He  changed  the  subject.  "How  comes 
you  don't  get  married  ?"  he  asked. 

"None  of  the  girls  will  have  me." 

"You  keep  on  drinking  and  rousting  around  and  you 
won't  be  fit  for  any  girl  to  have.  But  I  will  admit  you've 
let  up  a  little  here  lately." 

Mark  made  a  gesture  of  impatience,  and  harked  back  to 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  155 

their  former  topic  as  if  they  had  not  left  it.  "Of  course 
I  knew  Louellen  wasn't  going  to  be  contented  with  him, — 
but  I  didn't  count  on  his  being  mean  to  her.  I  understand 
they've  got  a  child.  I  saw  Louellen  once  with  it,  in  the 
buggy  with  her  mother." 

Doctor  Tithelow  grunted.  "They've  got  one,  going  to 
have  another.  Seems  John  Henry's  set  on  having  a  son. 
The  first  was  a  girl."  He  got  up  and  lumbered  down  to 
his  buggy.  "I  hope  there'll  come  a  time,"  he  said  vehemently, 
"when  women'll  be  something  to  men  besides  reproductive 
animals.  God,  when  I  see  what  the  women  in  this  com- 
munity put  up  with,  makes  me  feel  that  all  this  holler 
Susan  B.  Anthony  and  that  Stanton  female's  putting  up 
for  women's  rights  might  have  something  to  it." 

He  left  Mart  sunk  in  deep  depression,  groping.  A  strange 
fixed  constancy  toward  Louellen  possessed  him.  He  made 
no  effort  to  see  her,  or  to  meet  her;  there  would  be  danger 
for  both  of  them  in  that.  But  he  wanted  to  be  near  her. 
He  had  told  her  he  would  always  wait  for  her,  wait  for 
the  chance  of  her  needing  him,  and  he  was  bound  to  do 
it.  He  kept  a  place  apart  for  her  in  his  thoughts,  in  his 
heart,  even  as  she  did  for  him.  Otherwise  his  life  had 
gone  on  in  its  simplicity  and  aimlessness,  as  always.  There 
was  the  land  to  be  farmed,  the  stock  to  be  bred  and  reared. 
In  the  spring  and  fall,  hunting.  Always  he  had  his  horses, 
his  dogs,  and  his  friends,  but  from  the  more  robust  antics 
of  the  Kemps  he  had  withdrawn.  The  feeling  that  they  were 
childishly  not  worth  while  had  persisted.  Instead  he  and 
Jere  Willis,  who  had  long  ago  forgiven  and  forgotten  his 
beating,  Ches  Layton,  Haney  Griffith  and  one  or  two  others 
had  formed  a  social  group  devoted  to  riding  and  cards,  with 
an  occasional  drinking  bout  and  cocking  main,  in  which 
diversions  they  were  occasionally  joined  by  Doctor  Tithelow, 
or  Luther  Gadd,  or  Clint  Cook,  town  bloods,  and  older  men. 
So  his  days  came  and  went  in  a  slow  peaceful  wash  of  time 
that  quieted  the  ache  of  his  loss  of  Louellen.  That  sore 
was  healed  over,  but  not  cured. 


156  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

Doctor  Tithelow  had  torn  open  the  covering  tissue,  left 
the  wound  bare  and  raw.  His  imagination  made  Louellen 
a  dove  in  John  Henry's  talons.  The  outrage  of  possession 
by  another  of  the  woman  he  loved,  their  intimacy,  brought 
a  more  poignant,  more  unbearable  pain  than  utter  loss.  It 
was  a  constant  twist  of  the  knife,  salt  rubbed  on  raw  flesh. 

"Yes — but  what  you  going  to  do?"  he  asked  himself. 
There  seemed  no  answer  adequate  to  his  need.  He  shook 
his  head  impatiently.  He  could  feel,  he  could  act,  but  to 
moralize  or  reflect  was  difficult.  If  there  was  no  way 
out, — why,  then,  there  was  no  way  out.  He  would  have 
to  stand  it.  He  would  have  to  wait.  He  was  strangely 
sure  that  it  was  all  just  a  matter  of  waiting.  And  he  was 
dimly  aware  that  he  was  incapable  of  shaping  events  to  suit 
his  will,  that  he  had  never  been  able  to  change  and  remold 
his  fate.  He  was  too  close  to  the  earth,  too  much  a  part 
of  the  soil  to  do  that.  He  must  yield  and  accept,  drawn 
on  or  hindered  by  unescapable  destiny. 

He  looked  about  his  bare  and  quiet  house.  Far  back  in 
the  kitchen  he  could  hear  the  shuffle  and  clack  of  Ephum 
and  Sally  in  desultory  talk  and  still  more  desultory  labor. 
His  house  was  bare,  like  his  heart,  like  his  life.  Unskilled, 
untutored  in  perception  or  knowledge  of  himself,  he  felt  this 
bareness  and  the  strangeness,  the  wrong  that  a  man  with 
his  strong  straight  body,  his  youth,  should  not  reproduce 
his  kind.  He  bred  his  sound  cattle,  and  increased  his  stock 
healthily.  Silly's  litter  of  puppies  which  she  fawned  over 
and  brought  proudly  to  his  feet,  barking  and  growling  in 
maternal  excitement;  the  wobbling  tilt  of  newborn  colts, 
ridiculous  in  proportion,  awkward,  but  somehow  babyish 
and  appealing;  ugly  little  helpless  lambs,  and  fawn-eyed 
calves  with  button  horns, — year  by  year  all  this  life  renewed 
itself,  as  normally,  as  naturally  as  the  corn  and  wheat  of 
his  fields  grew  to  maturity,  and  ripened  their  fertile  ker- 
nels. Only  the  master  of  the  cattle,  of  the  land,  remained 
alone. 

But  he  would  not  change.     Over  there,  in  that  house 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  157 

which  he  could  see,  set  deep,  like  his  own,  in  clustering 
trees,  Louellen  might  be  the  wife  of  John  Henry  Hyde  and 
bear  his  children.  Even  so,  those  stubborn  facts  brought 
him  no  wish  for  any  other  woman.  His  loneliness  was  the 
jewel  of  his  constancy;  if  he  could  not  drink  clear  water, 
he  would  go  thirsty.  Delia  Layton  ...  he  frowned,  be- 
wildered. A  girl  oughtn't  to  be  so  hard  after  a  man  who'd 
showed  her  that  he  didn't  want  her.  Delia  was  persistent 
with  all  the  rigor  of  a  spoiled  child.  Well  ...  it  wouldn't 
do  her  any  good.  Some  men  might  find  themselves  whisked 
into  matrimony  by  a  too-eager  woman,  but  not  Mart. 

"If  she  hadn't  been  so  darned  anxious  I'd  have  liked  her 
more,"  he  thought.  "She  ought  to  have  more  sense.  Even 
Ches  hints  sometimes.  If  she  was  my  sister  I'd  give  her 
a  good  spanking  and  shut  her  up,  once  and  for  all."  He 
had  no  gallant  compunctions  against  such  conclusions.  It 
was  the  part  of  the  man  to  pursue,  the  woman  to  await 
pursuit,  and  not  to  assist  at  her  own  capture.  If  she  was 
too  willing  she  inevitably  spoiled  her  market. 

There  was  that  within  him  which  found  it  curiously 
satisfying  and  good  to  live  with  denial,  and  with  sorrow. 
Below  his  roistering,  his  gayety,  his  taste  for  pleasure, 
there  was  a  strain  of  melancholy,  of  irony,  inherited,  per- 
haps, from  that  first  Bladen  of  the  merry  heart,  who  had 
possessed,  nevertheless,  sufficient  purpose  to  win  his  way 
up  from  the  servants'  class  and  establish  a  sound  if  modest 
fortune  in  a  new  world.  As  he  worked  out  his  future  against 
hard  material  conditions  and  took  amiable  pride  in  his 
success,  so  Mart,  generations  away,  must  hold  his  own 
mischance  of  happiness  to  steady  and  enlarge  him,  finding 
himself  steadfast  and  sure,  anchored  where  before  he  had 
drifted. 

The  gossips  of  the  county,  when  Mart  Bladen's  name 
was  up  for  comment,  had  the  truth  of  it  when  they  said: 
"He  never  got  over  Louellen  West  throwing  him  over." 

Invariably  they  added :  "Not  that  he  shows  it  any,  good- 
ness knows.  He's  a  case — Mart  Bladen." 


CHAPTER  EIGHTEEN 

LOUELLEN  HYDE'S  second  child  was  a  son,  puny,  fretful, 
scrawny.  A  delicate  child,  hard  to  keep  alive,  but  instantly 
the  apple  of  John  Henry's  eye.  He  was  named  for  his 
father,  and  the  week  after  his  christening  was  marked  to 
Louellen  by  her  first  open  quarrel  with  her  husband. 

It  was  about  money.  John  Henry's  avaricious  tendencies 
had  grown  apace.  The  cattle,  the  driving  horse,  that  had 
been  part  of  Louellen's  marriage  portion,  had  long  since 
been  appropriated  to  his  own  profit.  He  had  represented 
to  hei  that  he  would  "take  care  of  the  money"  for  her  and 
her  faint  demurrer  had  gone  past  him  unheard.  She  had 
not  appealed  to  her  father.  In  any  matter  such  as  this 
Amos  West  accepted  his  son-in-law's  view  as  just  and 
right.  Did  he  not  take  care,  and,  to  do  him  justice,  with 
the  utmost  scrupulosity,  of  Jane  West's  personal  moneys, 
giving  her  due  account,  and  making  it  possible  for  her  to 
use  it  at  any  time  she  wished?  Narrow  and  dominating 
Amos  West  might  be,  but  his  palms  had  no  itch,  and  he 
was  utterly  honest.  Nor  was  he  suspicious  of  the  honesty 
of  others.  John  Henry  had  calculated  on  that.  He  had 
also  calculated  on  the  fact  that  Amos  West  profoundly 
believed  women  to  have  no  judgment  where  matters  of 
business  were  concerned,  despite  the  daily  evidence  to  the 
contrary  he  had  from  his  wife.  What  he  observed  in  Jane 
did  not  change  his  long  accepted  generalization  as  to  the 
weakness  of  the  feminine  intellect,  the  incapacity  of  the 
sex  to  think  for  themselves,  their  inferiority  in  all  things, 
to  men. 

But  now  the  mortgage  which  he  had  given  Louellen  had 
fallen  due.  John  Henry  apprised  her  of  it.  He  was  sitting 
poring  over  the  precious  notes  and  papers  of  his  solid  cherry 
desk,  key  to  which  never  left  his  pocket. 

158 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  159 

"That  mortgage  of  yours'll  be  due  next  month,"  he  said. 
"I  think  Kelly'll  be  ready  to  pay.  I'll  see  him  when  I  go 
to  town  come  Saturday,  and  make  arrangements  to  bank 
the  money  till  I  can  pick  up  another  just  as  good,  or  hear 
of  somebody  who  wants  to  borrow." 

Louellen  had  been  trying  to  coax  the  fretting  baby  to 
sleep.  Her  bright  color  had  changed  to  a  yellowish  pallor, 
token  of  anemia  and  exhaustion.  Rain  had  kept  John 
Henry  in  the  house  all  day  and  his  presence  had  been 
wearisome.  He  thought,  and  said,  that  Louellen  and  Aunt 
Lena,  between  them,  ought  to  be  able  to  keep  the  children 
quiet  and  good,  but  Virgie  was  teething  and  feverish,  and 
"restless  as  a  puppy,"  as  Aunt  Lena  remarked,  after  an 
hour's  efforts  to  amuse  and  quiet  had  been  in  vain.  But 
now  she  had  unwillingly  dropped  into  slumber,  and  if  the 
baby  could  also  be  lured  therein,  there  would  be  a  short 
eminently  desirable  peace. 

"Won't  I  have  to  bank  the  money  ?"  asked  Louellen,  only 
half  listening,  "Or  will  it  do  if  I  just  give  you  my  book?" 
She  had  saved  a  little  from  her  dearly  won  egg  and  butter 
surplus,  and  contrary  to  John  Henry's  advice  had  put  it 
in  the  Manor  bank  under  her  own  name.  Her  bank  book 
was  a  red  rag  to  him. 

"I'll  bank  it  in  my  own  account,"  he  answered  shortly, 
"and  invest  it  again  soon's  I  get  a  chance." 

She  had  never  before  gainsaid  him  directly,  but  now  she 
felt  a  flash  of  her  old  time  temper.  "Then  I  won't  sign 
the  release  papers,  nor  the  receipt,"  she  said.  "Not  unless 
that  money's  paid  right  into  my  own  hands,  and  I  can  put 
it  into  my  own  account  and  invest  it  myself." 

"What  d'you  know  about  investing?"  he  said,  showing 
his  teeth  in  that  ugly  smile  she  hated. 

"Maybe  nothing,  but  I  know  what's  mine.  You've  never 
made  any  accounting  of  what  you  got  for  my  cattle,  either." 

He  was  genuinely  astonished.  Louellen  in  open  revolt 
was  something  unexpected,  amazing. 

"What's  got  into  you?"  he  asked  peevishly.     "I'll  give 


160  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

you  an  accounting  in  my  own  good  time.  And  as  for  your 
not  signing  the  receipt — we'll  see  about  that." 

"Yes,  we  will,"  she  declared  hardily. 

Their  glances  were  knives.  "You  can't  act  like  this  to 
me,"  he  declared  harshly.  "I  don't  know  why  you  should 
manifest  such  an  evil  and  un-Christian  spirit,  all  of  a 
sudden." 

It  was  his  prayermeeting  twang,  and  it  added  to  her 
flame.  "Maybe  I  feel  evil  and  un-Christian,"  she  declared. 
"And  I  tell  you  this :  if  you  don't  hand  me  over  that  mort- 
gage money  soon's  you  get  it,  I'll  go  right  to  Pa  and  Ma, 
and  tell  them.  I'll  tell  a  few  more  people  on  the  way,  too. 
I'd  just  as  soon  everybody 'd  know  what  kind  you  are,  try- 
ing to  use  your  wife's  money  as  if  it  was  your  own.  As 
if  you  hadn't  plenty  and  more  than  plenty!  People'd  like 
to  hear  you  give  your  experience  in  class-meeting  when 
they  knew  you'd  banked  my  mortgage  money  for  your- 
self." She  was  amazed  at  the  facility  with  which  she 
found  words,  the  ease  with  which  she  defied  her  tyrant,  now 
that  she  had  begun  it.  The  sight  of  this  unctuous  sleek 
man,  with  his  increased  flesh,  his  ruddy  color,  his  health 
and  strength,  contrasted  with  her  own  sickly  bedraggle- 
ment  urged  her  to  express  her  pent-up  resentment. 

His  color  flamed  higher  as  he  listened,  he  darkened  and 
swelled  in  offended  dignity.  Yet  he  knew  that  she  had 
struck  his  weak  joint.  He  could  not  bear  to  be  laughed  at 
or  belittled.  Nothing  must  be  said  of  him  except  what  was 
of  good  report,  praise,  compliment.  To  be  thrown  into 
the  backwash  of  idle  tittle-tattle  was  unbearable  to  him, 
he  winced  away  from  the  faintest  prospect  of  it. 

"You  don't  know  what  you're  talking  about,"  he  said, 
but  she  detected  the  undercurrent  of  uncertainty,  uneasiness. 
"Anybody'd  think  you  distrusted  me." 

Her  emotion  made  her  a  woman  strengthened,  renewed. 
She  put  the  child,  still  crying,  down  into  his  cradle  and 
stood  over  it.  "Distrust  you!"  she  cried,  and  the  sound 
of  her  voice  rang  clear  and  almost  mirthful.  "Distrust 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  161 

you !  I  hate  you  !  I  despise  you !  I  loathe  and  detest  you — 
body  and  soul.  What  do  you  make  of  that,  John  Henry?" 

John  Henry  could  make  nothing  at  all  of  it.  "If  you 
felt  thataway/*  he  said,  "what'd  you  marry  me  for?" 

"I'd  like  to  know  myself,"  said  Louellen,  bitterly.  'If 
I'd  known  you  as  I  know  you  now  I'd  never've  done  it." 

John  Henry  chose  to  be  superior,  authoritative,  disre- 
garding. "You  mustn't  talk  so.  It's  wild  and  foolish.  It's 
sacrilegious,  too.  Saint  Paul  says  the  woman  is  not  to 
usurp  authority  over  the  man.  A  man's  got  to  be  head  of 
his  household — and  I  intend  to  be." 

Louellen  tossed  her  arms.  "Saint  Paul !  My  soul,  Saint 
Paul !  I  wonder  what  he'd  have  said  to  you.  You're  going 
to  be  head  of  your  household,  are  you?  All  right,  that 
don't  change  anything.  I've  stood  too  much — and  too 
long.  And  this  mortgage  money — my  money — if  you  try 
to  put  that  into  your  pocket  same's  you  have  the  cattle,  I'll 
make  you  smart  for  it.  For  all  Pa  thinks  you're  so  godly 
he'd  never  countenance  that." 

He  got  up  and  stalked  out,  saving  his  face.  "I'll  talk 
to  you  when  you're  in  your  right  mind.  You  try  to  get 
yourself  under  control.  I  won't  stand  much  of  this  kind 
of  goings  on." 

Presently  she  heard  him  out  in  the  woodhouse,  sawing 
furiously.  Aunt  Lena  crept  in  from  the  kitchen.  "What 
were  you  and  him  having  such  a  towse  about?"  she  asked 
tremulously.  "I  was  scared  to  come  in." 

Louellen  told  her.  "And  he  needn't  think  he's  heard 
the  last  of  it,  either.  I'll  have  that  money,  or  I'll  do  as 
I  said." 

Aunt  Lena  shook  her  head  pityingly.  "You  don't  know 
John  Henry  when  he  gets  his  dander  up.  He'll  manage  to 
get  round  it  somehow.  He's  the  kind  that  never  forgets — 
anything — and  keeps  right  on  worrying  and  gnawing  till 
he  has  his  way.  It's  better  to  let  him  have  it  in  the  first 
place  and  save  bad  feeling." 

"Seems  to  me,"  countered  Louellen,  "we're  too  intent 


162  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

on  saving  John  Henry's  feelings.  Let's  save  our  own  a 
while." 

But  Aunt  Lena  was  not  to  be  reasoned  with.  "You'll 
see.  It  don't  pay." 

And  the  malevolent  outraged  whine  of  John  Henry's 
saw  echoed  the  sentiment. 

Louellen  felt  her  own  enthusiasm  ebbing.  She  suddenly 
realized  that  she  had  spent  herself  in  that  fiery  interview, 
that  she  ached  with  weariness,  that  her  flesh  fairly  trembled 
on  her  bones  in  despairing  fatigue.  She  sat  down  by  her 
child's  cradle  and  rocked  it  mechanically.  Even  so,  she 
could  not  be  sorry.  "President  Lincoln  ought  to've  signed 
a  'mancipation  proclamation  for  white  women  as  well  as 
nigger  men,"  she  said  to  Aunt  Lena.  The  timid  old  maid 
compressed  into  her  hopeless  answer  a  lifetime  of  cynic 
observation.  "S'far  as  I  ever  see,  there's  no  'mancipation 
for  white  women  from  white  men.  Except  death.  That's 
why  I  stayed  single." 

The  other  hardly  heard  her.  She  was  wondering  if  John 
Henry  would  yield,  and  if  he  did,  what  payment  he  would 
exact  for  his  yielding.  She  wondered  if  she  would  have 
the  courage,  in  the  last  stress,  to  go  home  and  appeal  to 
her  father  and  mother.  Why  had  she  started  all  this 
pother  about  the  mortgage  money?  What  did  it  matter? 
What  good  was  money  to  her,  and  why  should  she  want  it  ? 

"If  I  could  only  see  my  way  clear  to — to  anything,"  she 
thought.  "But  whichever  way  I  start  it  don't  seem  worth 
while.  It  all  comes  back  to  living  with  him.  If  I  could 
only  get  away !  If  I  could  only  get  away !  If  I  could  only 
make  it  so  that  he'd  never  want  me  back !" 

"I'll  start  the  fire  up  and  put  the  kettle  on,  Aunt  Lena," 
she  said.  "You  sit  here  and  rock  Buddy.  I  feel's  if  a 
little  stirring  round  would  do  me  good.  When  I  get  supper 
going  I'll  call  you  to  set  the  table." 

Her  immaculate  kitchen  soothed  her.  The  floor  was 
scoured  white,  and  so  was  the  table  top.  The  tins  were 
mirrors,  her  stove  a  friendly  black-shining  ogre,  waiting 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  163 

to  be  fed  the  sticks  of  pine  and  oak  piled  in  the  green  painted 
wood-box.  A  pot  of  oxalis  bloomed  on  the  windowsill, 
bright  pink  flowers,  little  impudent  tossed-about  bells  of 
color  among  the  trefoil  leaves  and  crisp  translucent  stems. 
Louellen  raked  out  the  few  living  coals  in  the  ashes  of  the 
stove,  coaxed  them  with  crumpled  paper  and  some  scraps 
of  kindling,  and  the  flame  leaped  up,  responsive  to  her 
craft.  She  piled  in  the  wood,  filled  the  kettle  and  set  it 
in  place.  She  would  make  hot  biscuits  for  supper — John 
Henry  did  not  like  the  neighborhood  custom  of  fresh  hot 
bread  with  each  meal.  She  would  open  a  jar  of  straw- 
berry preserves — John  Henry  preferred  cherry.  She  would 
have  tea  and  not  coffee — John  Henry  did  not  drink  tea. 
While  she  was  about  it  she  would  cream  instead  of  fry 
the  potatoes,  for  he  considered  frying  the  only  method  of 
rendering  potatoes  palatable.  She  would,  she  decided,  in 
every  way  make  him  see  that  it  was  to  be  open  war. 

"Aunt  Lena'll  pass  away  when  she  sees  the  table,"  she 
told  the  steaming  tea  kettle.  But  she  was  so  tired.  She 
leaned  a  moment  against  the  window  frame,  looking  out 
at  the  rain.  She  did  not  want  to  fight  and  quarrel  and 
bicker.  Always  it  brought  with  it  a  sense  of  inevitable 
personal  degradation.  She  was  less  herself,  and  more  a 
shrew,  a  scold,  each  time  it  happened.  Again  she  had  the 
strong  impulse  to  change  and  alter  her  life  with  a  violent 
irrevocable  gesture.  Once  she  had  done  it,  disastrously, 
in  her  marriage  with  John  Henry.  Now,  to  escape  from  that 
marriage,  why  should  she  not  do  it  again?  Nothing,  noth- 
ing could  be  worse  than  this.  She  was  sick,  sore,  wasted 
in  body  and  soul.  And  endless  years  of  it  stretched  before 
her. 

John  Henry  came  to  supper  like  a  malicious  thunder- 
cloud. Nor  did  the  shadow  lift  when  he  saw  a  meal  in 
direct  perversion  of  his  explicit  taste.  But  Louellen  ate 
with  a  relish,  for  the  first  time  in  weeks.  She  waited  for 
his  temper  to  lash  out  at  her,  but  it  had  not  reached  that 
stage.  It  was  still,  brooding,  sullen. 


164  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

They  were  only  half  way  through  the  gloomy  meal  when 
there  came  a  sound  of  buggy  wheels  in  the  wide  yard,  then 
steps  and  a  heavy  pounding  on  the  door.  Hance  Wright, 
his  youthful  face  drawn  into  lines  of  distress,  stood  there. 

"Louellen,"  he  stammered,  "I  come  to  get  you — your 
Pa's  had  a  stroke.  I  dropped  in  to  see  Annie,  and  found 
?t'd  just  happened,  and  so  I  sent  Edward  for  Doc  Tithe- 
low  and  come  on  over  here  to  get  you  and  John  Henry. 
He's— well,  I'm  afraid  he's  right  bad  off." 


CHAPTER  NINETEEN 

AMOS  WEST  rallied  a  little,  regaining  for  a  week  a  little 
movement  of  his  limbs  and  his  speech,  thickened  and  al- 
most inarticulate.  A  second  stroke  deprived  him  of  this, 
and  his  long  lean  old  body,  weatherbeaten  and  toil-worn, 
lay  wholly  inert,  unresponsive  to  his  imperious  will.  Only 
his  eyes  stayed  alive,  resigned,  patient.  At  the  end  of 
three  weeks  he  lapsed  into  coma,  and  presently  died,  with- 
out regaining  consciousness. 

Under  this  sudden  unexpected  bereavement  Jane  West 
crumpled  and  broke,  grieving  with  a  passion  that  brought 
rebuke  from  Brother  Truitt,  who  felt  that  she  showed  a 
lack  of  proper  Christian  resignation.  She  did  not  hear 
him.  It  was  strange  and  pitiful  to  see  this  sturdy,  calm 
woman  beset  with  emotion  so  devastating.  She  aged  a 
decade  overnight ;  her  resolution  and  her  strength  were 
gone. 

She  wept  to  her  daughters.  "I  can't  understand  it — I 
can't  understand  it!  The  best  man  that  ever  lived — and 
the  kindest  heart.  Honest  as  the  day  he  was.  No  woman 
ever  had  a  better  husband, — there  wasn't  any  reason  why 
he  should  be  taken  and  me  left.  He'd  ought  to've  lived 
twenty  years  more.  Thirty  years  we've  lived  together,  and 
now  to  have  him  go !" 

Without  reserve  she  poured  out  all  that  was  in  her  heart, 
and  made  no  effort  to  rouse  herself  into  any  practical  con- 
sideration of  the  funeral.  Let  others  care  for  that.  Her 
sisters  came,  and  all  the  circle  of  kin  that  had  not  gathered 
since  Louellen's  wedding,  but  Jane  West  did  not  see  them, 
did  not  realize  them.  Docilely  she  did  as  they  told  her,  put 
on  the  heavy  crepe,  the  stifling  black  veil  that  they  fitted 
to  her,  but  she  answered  their  sympathetic  questions  at 
random,  and  her  eyes  were  vacant. 

165 


166  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

"Terrible  the  way  Jane's  taking  on.  I  wouldn't  have 
thought  she'd  give  way  like  this,"  they  told  each  other. 

Another  universal  comment  was :  "I  don't  know  what 
she'd've  done  without  John  Henry." 

For  John  Henry  was  in  his  rightful  element.  He  man- 
aged the  obsequies,  even  arranging  who  should  go  in  the 
first  carriages  without  causing  any  heart-burnings  or  un- 
pleasantness, he  displayed  just  the  proper  feeling  without 
being  too  overcome  to  attend  to  all  the  details  of  the  dreary 
business.  He  could  descant  feelingly  to  a  faraway  cousin 
of  the  Christian  virtues  of  the  deceased,  and  at  the  same 
time  indicate  to  the  cousin  the  place  most  convenient  to 
stable  his  horse.  It  was  strongly  felt  throughout  the  family 
that  John  Henry  had  acquitted  himself  well  in  his  first 
chance  to  show  his  abilities. 

When  the  will  was  opened  it  was  found  that  all  Amos 
West's  property  was  left  to  his  wife  for  her  lifetime,  and 
that  she  was  sole  executrix  without  bond.  In  sad  bewil- 
derment she  could  only  turn  to  John  Henry.  "I  don't 
know  what  to  do,"  she  confessed,  for  the  first  time  in  her 
life. 

So  again  John  Henry  became  very  active.  It  seemed 
the  best  plan  that  the  farm  should  be  rented  and  that  Annie 
and  her  mother  should  take  a  house  in  Manor  and  live  there 
together.  Amos  West  had  not  neglected  to  lay  up  treasures 
on  earth  as  well  as  in  heaven,  and  his  widow  was  well  off. 
Not  that  she  cared.  She  sat  in  her  accustomed  chair,  and 
plaited  her  black  skirts  between  weary  idle  fingers,  giving 
only  half  attention  to  the  things  John  Henry  told  her.  She 
signed  the  papers  he  brought  her  without  question.  Now 
and  then  he  required  the  signatures  of  Annie  and  Louellen. 
He  held  frequent  consultations  with  Judge  Markwood,  and 
astonished  that  easy-going  gentleman  by  his  sharp  com- 
prehension of  the  law. 

In  a  little  less  than  two  months  from  the  day  when  Amos 
West  fell  stricken  at  his  kitchen  door,  his  widow  and  daugh- 
ter were  placed  in  a  town  dwelling,  and  the  farmstead  that 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  167 

had  been  his  father's  was  in  the  hands  of  a  capable  renter. 
His  going  had  changed  and  disorganized  all  the  immediate 
life  about  him. 

During  all  this  time  Louellen  had  stayed  with  her  mother. 
Jane  West  wanted  her,  and  John  Henry  had  not  dissented. 
So  Aunt  Lena  kept  little  Virgie,  and  Louellen  and  her  baby 
lived  in  the  old  home.  In  spite  of  the  grief  she  felt  for 
her  father,  and  the  distress  at  her  mother's  suffering  and 
failure,  it  was  a  respite  for  Louellen.  She  grew  stronger, 
her  color  brightened,  a  thread  of  energy  and  vitality  crept 
through  her  languor.  But  now  that  her  mother  and  Annie 
were  in  their  new  home — where  poor  Jane  West  moved 
listlessly  and  silently  about,  chilled  by  its  strangeness  and 
loneliness — there  was  no  further  excuse  for  her  to  stay. 

Seen  through  the  lens  of  her  mother's  grief  Amos  West 
became  a  different  person  to  Louellen.  Nothing  of  his 
narrowness,  nothing  of  his  sternness,  stayed  in  her  mem- 
ory, only  his  solid  goodness,  his  devotion,  his  closeness  of 
spirit  to  her  mother.  In  the  breaking  of  this  marriage  she 
saw  what  marriage  might  be.  This  was  what  a  man  might 
mean  to  a  woman,  if  they  loved  each  other.  Her  mother's 
tears  for  her  loss  washed  clear  for  Louellen  the  dimensions 
of  her  own  bondage. 

"If  it  was  John  Henry  who'd  died,"  she  thought,  "how 
glad  I'd've  been.  Oh,  this  can't  go  on — it  can't.  I  can't 
bear  it." 

In  an  intense  depression  she  got  into  the  buggy  to  go 
home. 

"You've  stayed  away  too  long,"  said  John  Henry,  gath- 
ering up  the  reins.  "Man  and  wife  shouldn't  be  separated 
for  no  such  length  of  time.  You  go  upstairs  as  soon  as  we 
get  home.  It'll  be  like  getting  married  all  over  again." 

The  sickening  first  days  of  her  marriage  rose  before 
her  evilly.  She  longed  to  tell  him  she  was  never  going  to 
live  with  him  again,  but  she  shrank  from  the  wrangle  that 
would  follow.  He  was  just  a  beast.  She  thought  of  the 
quarrel  they  had  had  on  the  day  when  she  had  been  called 


168  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

to  her  father,  and  a  question  came  into  her  mind.  She 
asked  it  involuntarily. 

"What'd  you  do  with  that  mortgage  of  mine?"  she  asked. 
"It  passed  out  of  my  mind.  You  didn't  ask  me  for  my 
bankbook." 

He  smiled,  his  arrogant,  greedy  smile.  "I  did  what  I 
said  I  was  going  to  do.  I  got  the  money  and  banked  it." 

"But — but — I  never  signed — "  She  tried  to  puzzle  it 
out. 

"Oh,  yes,  you  did.  You  thought  you  was  signing  some- 
thing about  your  father's  estate  and  you  never  so  much 
as  looked  at  'em."  He  was  laughing  now,  satisfied  with 
his  trick.  "I  guess  that'll  teach  you  not  to  be  so  high- 
headed.  You  been  getting  out  of  hand  completely  here 
lately.  You  might's  well  und'stand  you  can't  get  away 
with  any  smartness  with  me.  I'm  just  as  smart  as  you  are, 
and  maybe  a  little  bit  smarter." 

He  waited  calmly  for  her  to  say  something,  but  she  could 
not  speak.  She  was  choked,  stifled  with  the  ignominy  of 
it.  "And  you  can't  run  to  your  Pa  now  and  play  baby, 
either,"  he  added,  clinching  his  triumph. 

So  he  had  counted  on  that.  He  had  seen  in  her  father's 
death  this  cowardly  advantage  to  himself.  Now  she  would 
have  no  support,  no  one  to  turn  to  for  help  or  protection. 
Her  broken  mother  .  .  .  not  the  Jane  West  of  old.  It 
would  be  little  use  to  appeal  to  her  even  if  she  would  have 
the  heartlessness  to  thrust  further  trouble  on  her.  Now 
she  was  really  alone.  She  must  fight  for  herself,  or  she 
must  submit  wholly  .  .  .  for  always.  Her  resolution  crys- 
tallized. 

"I'm  not  going  upstairs  when  we  get  home,"  she  said 
softly.  "I've  had  it  in  mind  not  ever  to  live  with  you 
again,  because  I  despise  you  so.  Now  I've  made  up  my 
mind.  I'm  not  going  to.  If  you  lay  hands  on  me,  I'll 
fight.  No — it  won't  be — exactly  as  if  we  were  getting 
married  all  over  again.  ..." 

"We'll  see,"  he  said.     "You  need— discipline." 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  169 

She  did  not  answer.  They  drove  on  in  combative  silence 
through  the  shimmer  and  shine  of  the  earliest  spring  sun- 
shine, an  iridescent  promise,  a  teasing  prophecy  which 
neither  of  them  perceived  or  felt.  The  swelling  buds  of 
the  swamp  maples,  the  mere  flicker  and  feather  of  green  in 
the  willows,  the  clustering  of  frail  short-stemmed  flowers — 
so  eager  to  bloom,  and  yet  so  afraid  of  the  lingering  cold — 
under  dead  leaves,  or  in  protected  corners  open  to  the  South, 
the  excited  rush  and  babble  of  tiny  spring  freshets  in  the 
brooks,  none  of  the  generous  enchantment  of  a  world  wait- 
ing for  renewal  could  pierce  through  their  dark  animosity, 
their  absorbed  conflict. 

As  they  drew  near  home  her  purpose  hardened,  her  face 
set  in  grim  stone.  Her  will  did  not  waver.  She  would  not 
.  .  .  she  would  not.  This  was  the  end.  There  was  noth- 
ing good,  nothing  decent,  nothing  even  remotely  livable, 
in  him.  He  must  have  everything,  strip  her.  She  was  to 
have  no  will,  no  self,  no  rights  of  her  own  and  all  of  her 
resources  were  to  be  his  property,  existing  merely  for  his 
use,  at  his  will  and  pleasure.  That  mortgage  money  .  .  . 

She  understood  why  there  are  murderers. 

And  yet  she  had  come  only  to  a  negative  decision.  There 
must  be  something  more,  positive  assertion,  ascendency. 

At  the  house  Aunt  Lena  came  eagerly  to  meet  them,  and 
little  Virgie,  seeing  her  mother,  set  up  a  shout  of  joy. 

"You  don't  really  need  me,"  laughed  Louellen,  "Aunt 
Lena  takes  better  care  of  you  than  I  do." 

"The  stay's  done  you  good,"  said  Aunt  Lena,  "and  the 
baby  too.  My,  he's  grown.  It's  been  lonesome  without 
you.  Is  your  Ma  feeling  better  by  this  time?  How  I've 
thought  of  her!" 

The  two  women  sat  gossiping,  and  presently  John  Henry 
came  in.  He  hesitated  for  a  moment,  and  then  went  on 
upstairs.  Louellen  did  not  look  at  him,  only  sat  and  con- 
tinued her  talk  with  Aunt  Lena.  Presently  he  called,  "Lou- 
ellen." 

"Ask  him  what  he  wants,  will  you?"  said  Louellen  wick- 


170  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

edly,  "I'm  too  lazy  to  go  upstairs.  And  I  expect  we'd  bet- 
ter be  about  getting  supper." 

Aunt  Lena  came  back  from  the  foot  of  the  stairs  shaking 
her  head.  "He  couldn't  find  his  everyday  suit,"  she  said, 
"and  it  was  right  under  his  nose.  I  told  him.  Aren't  men 
ridic'lous?" 

"Certainly  are,"  agreed  Louellen.  "There  now,  Buddy, 
I'm  going  to  put  you  into  your  crib.  Look  how  plump  his 
little  hands  are,  Aunt  Lena.  Well,  shall  we  get  at  supper  ?" 

The  kitchen  and  Aunt  Lena  were  a  sure  refuge.  Lou- 
ellen was  busy  at  the  stove  when  John  Henry  stamped 
downstairs,  and  went  out  to  the  stables.  She  wanted  to 
scream  with  laughter,  to  shout  derision  at  him.  There  was 
a  long  butcher  knife,  thin  bladed,  sharp  as  a  razor,  lying 
on  the  kitchen  table,  and  time  and  again  her  eyes  lingered 
on  it,  her  fingers  itched  for  it.  She  caught  herself  back 
from  this. 

"I  wonder  if  I'm  going  crazy,"  she  thought. 

She  kept  up  a  pretense  of  conversation  with  Aunt  Lena 
during  supper,  and  afterward  lingered  downstairs  doing 
little  things  for  the  children.  John  Henry  had  said  little. 
He  had  the  air  of  one  who  bides  his  time  but  exacts  full 
payment  for  waiting. 

Quite  early  he  yawned  and  went  upstairs.  Louellen 
could  hear  him  padding  about  impatiently  up  there.  Aunt 
Lena  took  Virgie  off  to  bed  in  the  downstairs  room  which 
she  preferred  to  occupy  in  winter,  because  it  was  kept 
warm  and  cosy  by  the  dining  room  fire. 

Louellen  hesitated,  then  picked  up  the  sleeping  boy, 
wrapped  him  in  his  blankets  and  slowly,  with  stealthy  steps, 
went  up  the  stairs.  She  crept  down  the  hall,  entered  her 
little  old  room,  shut  and  bolted  the  door,  and  leaned  against 
it.  She  was  disposing  the  baby  in  the  bed,  wrapping  him 
more  comfortably,  when  John  Henry  rattled  at  the  knob. 
"What  you  doing  in  there?"  he  demanded. 

Now  that  the  actual  moment  of  battle  had  arrived  she 
was  faint  with  the  tumult  in  her  heart. 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  171 

i 

"I'm  going  to  stay  in  here,"  she  managed  to  say. 

She  heard  a  suppressed  exclamation,  and  then,  without 
wasting  words,  John  Henry  shouldered  the  door  with  all 
his  strength.  It  was  strong  oak,  and  did  not  give.  He  tried 
again — again.  But  the  door  stood  firm.  She  could  hear 
him  breathing  hard,  in  angry  gulps. 

Now  he  was  still,  and  a  moment  later  she  heard  him  run 
down  the  hall,  downstairs.  In  a  flash  of  divination  she 
knew  that  he  was  going  out  to  the  back  shed  where  he  kept 
his  tool  box.  He  would  get  something, — a  chisel, — a  bar, — 
and  break  the  lock.  Then  .  .  . 

She  flung  the  door  open  and  listened.  He  had  stopped 
to  light  a  lamp.  Without  knowing  what  she  was  doing, 
in  a  blind,  senseless  panic,  she  too  ran  downstairs,  unlocked 
the  front  door,  and  fled  out  into  the  cold  spring  night. 

She  ran  and  ran,  stopping  only  when  she  could  not  get 
her  breath,  when  the  sharp  pain  in  her  side  stabbed  her  too 
violently  to  let  her  go  on.  When  she  had  to  rest,  she  lis- 
tened for  pursuit,  but  there  was  none.  If  he  had  tried  to 
follow  he  had  not  found  her  track.  And  suddenly  she 
knew  that  she  had  unconsciously  run  to  Mart  Bladen, — that 
his  light  she  had  marked  so  often  from  her  window,  was 
shining  full  and  clear,  and  very  near,  before  her. 


HE  was  in  his  room,  half  asleep,  dozing  over  the  local 
column  of  the  Manor  Democrat,  when  Spot  and  Silly,  alert, 
warned  him  there  was  some  one  near.  They  did  not 
bark,  only  stood  to  attention,  their  ruffs  bristling,  growling 
low  in  their  throats.  Now  and  then  they  looked  up  at  Mart, 
questioningly,  and  edged  over  toward  the  door.  They  did 
not  know  whether  this  was  an  intruder  or  a  guest.  Any  one 
who  ran  so  breathlessly,  so  stumblingly  .  .  . 

"Mart,"  she  cried  huskily,  "Mart — let  me  in — " 

Her  face  white,  her  mouth  weakened  and  panting,  her 
gray  eyes  dilated  to  black,  appeared  at  the  low  window. 
He  ran  to  open  it,  to  lift  her  over  the  sill.  "For  God's 
sake,  Louellen,  what's  the  matter?"  he  cried.  "Anything 
wrong  at  your  house — ?" 

She  clung  to  him.  "Put  out  the  light,"  she  said.  "Put 
out  the  light.  He  might  be  coming  after  me." 

In  the  quick  darkness  she  held  to  him,  leaning,  dependent 
on  him.  "Who's  coming  after  you?"  he  asked,  puzzled. 
"There,  don't  shake  so.  Nothing's  going  to  hurt  you,  nor 
nobody.  I  got  you  safe,  honey.  Tell  me — what's  the 
matter?" 

"Mart,"  she  whispered,  "Mart — will  you  keep  me  here? 
Will  you  let  me — live  with  you?  Will  you — take  me, 
Mart?" 

The  sudden  apparition  of  her  had  been  startling,  so 
bewildering,  so  amazing  that  he  could  not  feel  its  reality. 
Yet  here  she  was,  shaken,  clinging,  her  soft  tangled  hair 
against  his  cheek,  her  hands  holding  to  him  with  desperate 
need.  Beautiful  and  dear — a  dream  come  true.  He  could 
only  hold  her  tighter,  aching  with  his  re-awakened  love  and 
need  of  her. 

"What  do  you  mean,  honey?"  he  whispered.  "What  do 

172 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  173 

you  mean  ?  Did  you  run  away  from  John  Henry  ?  What's 
he  done  to  you?  Let  me  go — I'll  settle  with  him." 

"No — no.  I  only  want  to  stay  here  with  you.  I  want 
to  belong  to  you.  I  want  it  to  be  so — so  I  can  never  go 
back.  I  won't  ever  go  back.  I  don't  care  what  happens — 
I'm  going  to  stay  here  with  you,  always.  Mart — Mart — 
when  I  saw  your  light  in  the  window — I  knew — I've  watched 
that  light  so  often,  night  after  night,  till  it  seemed  like 
you  were  talking  to  me — " 

"You  watched  my  light?    If  I'd  known — " 

"Mart,  I  love  you — I  love  you."  She  would  say  it  now, 
turning  her  head  to  press  her  lips  against  his  shoulder,  im- 
ploring forgiveness  and  response. 

"I've  never  loved  anybody  but  you,"  he  said.  "Louellen — 
my  girl — it's  been  so  long — "  His  famished  love  clamored 
for  her.  He  forgot  the  strangeness  of  her  coming,  the 
utter  madness  of  it,  everything,  in  the  darkness,  and  her 
surrender,  her  urgency.  She  was  here,  and  she  was  his. 
So  long  denied,  so  long  despaired  of. 

"I'll  never  let  you  go." 

"I'll  never  go." 

"I'll  hold  you  'gainst  the  world  and  all,  Louellen.  I'll 
take  you  away — " 

"I  only  want  to  be  with  you.  I  don't  care  about  any- 
thing else." 

"I  love  you — nobody  ever  loved  a  woman  so  much." 

"Keep  me  here." 

"Always." 

"I  belong  to  you — I  belong  to  you,  Mart." 

"Do  you  mean  that?" 

"You  know  it.    Why  should  I  come  if  I  didn't?" 

True — why  should  she  have  come?  Mart  knew,  as  well 
as  she,  the  immense,  the  overwhelming  significance  of  her 
coming,  the  gulf  of  shame  she  had  willingly  drowned  her- 
self in,  when  this  should  be  known.  But  neither  of  them 
thought  of  that  at  this  moment.  They  were  too  aware  of 
each  other,  too  wrapped  in  the  ecstasy  of  their  embrace. 


174  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

Sighingly,  longingly,  they  kissed,  sadness  and  rapture,  in- 
finite regret,  infinite  unrest,  but  an  irrevocable  pledge. 

"Long  ago  I  wanted  you  to  kiss  me — you  remember?" 

"I  wanted  to.  I  was  ashamed  to.  I'm  not  ashamed  of 
anything  now.  I  want  you  so.  I'll  never  go  away  from 
you." 

They  had  turned  back  the  weary  months,  blotted  them 
out.  They  could  never  be  separated  again.  He  could  not 
deny  himself,  nor  her.  In  the  darkness  there  was  nothing 
but  themselves,  their  demanding  love,  so  long  refused  and 
hidden.  Now,  in  its  hour  of  splendor,  it  became  a  tyrant, 
stronger  than  they,  stronger  than  all  the  world.  Its  power 
held  them,  enchained  them,  impelled  them  to  finality. 

At  last  they  lay  in  each  other's  arms,  spent  with  happiness, 
warm  and  content,  their  beauty  forever  intermingled,  their 
hearts  beating  with  the  same  pulse  of  transport,  the  touch 
of  their  yearning  flesh  telling  the  endless  tale  of  their  devo- 
tion. In  his  arms  she  was  safe,  protected  forever.  She 
knew  it.  His  arms  held  her  lightly,  but  with  infinite  security. 

"I  knew  it  would  be  like  this,"  she  whispered,  half  dream- 
ing. 

"I  love  you  so  much,"  he  answered. 

The  darkness  lifted  slowly,  a  veil  withdrawn,  slowly, 
slowly  ashen  gray  and  cold.  In  this  chill  translucence  came 
sanity,  and  remembrance,  realization.  Louellen  sat  up  sud- 
denly, tearing  herself  from  him. 

"Oh,"  she  cried.    "My  children — my  mother — " 

He  sat  beside  her,  trying  to  comfort  her,  troubled,  driven 
back  from  her,  unable  to  reach  through  and  hold  her. 

"Mart — I  must  go.  My  children.  Oh,  I  forgot.  I  forgot 
everything  but  you.  What  shall  I  do — " 

She  had  risen,  setting  herself  in  order  with  desperate, 
fumbling  fingers.  He  swung  himself  up  beside  her.  "Lou- 
ellen— you  can't  go  back — you  can't  go  back  now.  I  won't 
let  you." 

They  faced  each  other  in  the  grayness,  the  chill,  and 
suddenly  she  put  her  hands  up  over  her  face.  "I've  got 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  175 

to.  I — I  never  could  stand  it.  What  would  I  do?  And 
you,  Mart?  And  people — and  my  mother — and  Annie — oh, 
I  was  crazy!" 

"But  I  can't  let  you  go  back  to  him,  Louellen."  It  was 
torn  from  the  depths  of  his  heart,  the  protest.  "I'll  come 
on  over  there  and  tell  him,  hold  you  back  from  him.  I'm 
only  flesh  and  blood — I  can't  stand  everything,  either." 

But  the  relentless  dawn  forced  itself  in,  bringing  clarity, 
reason.  He  knew  how  the  country  would  ring  with  this, 
if  it  knew,  what  degradation  would  be  forced  on  her,  how 
she  would  be  isolated,  ostracized.  Worse — there  were  laws. 
.  .  .  His  unwilling  brain  reminded  him  of  a  terrible  case 
some  years  before.  The  angry  husband  had  the  woman 
jailed,  sentenced.  He  had  seen  John  Henry  whip  his  horses. 
What  might  he  not  do  to  Louellen?  He  stood  back  from 
her,  but  his  involuntary  protest  continued,  his  flesh  stronger 
than  his  understanding. 

"I  can't  let  you  go  back  to  him.  I'd  kill  him  first  Don't — 
don't  do  this,  Louellen." 

But  she  was  already  at  the  door,  only  now  she  turned  to 
him  again.  "So  long  as  I  live,"  she  said,  "he  shan't  ever 
touch  me.  But — I  must  go  back — I  must." 

"But,  Louellen — "  He  was  silent.  The  glory  of  the 
night  had  gone  from  him,  too.  He  was  helpless  to  protect 
or  comfort  her  if  she  stayed.  And  his  love  for  her  told  him 
that  it  was  better  to  be  parted  from  her  than  to  be  with  her 
and  have  no  power  to  shelter  her  as  a  man  shields  his  own 
woman.  It  would  damn  him  triply  deep  with  shame  if  she 
was  shamed.  Only,  how  could  he  bear  it  to  lose  her  again  ? 
How  could  he  bear  it! 

She  had  watched  him,  she  saw  that  he  accepted.  Now 
she  could  go.  "I  don't  care  if  'twas  a  sin,"  she  said.  "I'm 
not  sorry.  I  never  will  be  sorry.  Don't  you  ever  think 
I'll  be  sorry,  Mart.  I'll  be  glad  all  the  rest  of  my  life." 

She  opened  the  door,  ran  out  into  the  lightening  dawn, 
and  vanished  in  its  mists. 


PART  TWO 


NOTE:  The  characters  in  the  Second  Part  of 
the  story  are  largely  the  same  as  in  the  First  Part, 
save  that  Louellen  Hyde  has  a  third  child — 
Judith,  called  Judy, — and  Lee  Kemp,  the  son  of 
Joe  Kemp,  and  another  young  man,  one  Ed  Cal- 
loway,  a  well-to-do  farm  owner,  appear  as  mem- 
bers of  the  new  generation  that  has  grown  up 
in  the  interim. 


PART  TWO 

AFTER  SEVENTEEN  YEARS 

CHAPTER  ONE 

STRANGE  and  terrible,  how  life  cools  and  hardens,  crys- 
tallizes from  its  warm  and  facile  plasticity  into  forms  as 
definitely  set  and  as  rigidly  patterned,  but  nowhere  so  beau- 
tiful, as  beryl  and  garnet  schist.  The  inchoate  impulses,  the 
chaotic  passions,  the  indefinite  possibilities  of  the  soul  that 
have  been  a  fluent,  plenteous  current,  may  in  some  sudden 
and  profound  metastasis  go  arid,  congeal  into  bleak  ridges 
wherein  existence  is  as  barren,  as  open  to  view  and  as 
impervious  to  it,  as  in  the  stone  waves  of  some  extinct 
volcano.  The  valleys  of  the  sun  change  to  the  cold  valleys 
of  the  moon.  The  loveliness  of  youth  is  no  measure  of  its 
permanence,  no  warrant  against  metamorphosis. 

Louellen  West,  looking  backward  in  rare  moments  of  in- 
trospection, felt  that  she  had  never  possessed  youth.  Her 
mirror  confirmed  her.  She  had  stayed  slight, — that  com- 
fortable plumpness  and  solidity  that  had  been  her  mother's 
at  middle  age  were  not  Louellen's, — but  her  suppleness,  her 
spring  had  vanished.  Still  swift  and  deft  in  motion,  her 
swiftness  and  deftness  had  become  mechanical,  limited, 
without  the  light  swing  of  vitality  controlled  and  unex- 
pended. Her  face  was  thin,  her  lips  pinched,  tight  and 
guarded.  Her  eyes  were  faded,  watchful.  She  had  the 
look  of  one  whom  youth  has  fled  in  dismay,  finding  no 
place,  no  opportunity  for  his  smiles  and  light  vagaries. 

"You've  not  helt  your  own  as  well  as  I  supposed  you 
would,  Louellen,"  was  the  frank  comment  of  Miss  Becca 

179 


180  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

Simpson.  "But  then,  I  needn't  to  talk.  Since  my  flesh 
went  down  I'm  a  wrinkled  bag.  Sometimes  I'm  most 
tempted  to  let  my  hair  turn  gray,  but  then  I  look  in  the 
glass  and  I  say,  no,  I'm  going  to  cling  to  the  dye-bottle  till 
I'm  in  my  coffin.  I'd  be  bedrid  if  I  had  to  see  myself  going 
round  with  a  head  like  a  thistle-top." 

Miss  Becca  was  visiting.  Time  had  not  withered  her 
perennial  need  of  change  of  scene  and  people.  Within  her 
limited  area  she  was  as  regular  as  the  four  seasons.  Nor 
had  her  taste  for  fashion  left  her.  She  was  still  resplendent 
in  the  changeable  silks  she  loved. 

"I  suppose  I  do  look  kind  of  funny  in  these  big  sleeves," 
she  went  on,  tweaking  at  them  with  her  little  pudgy  old 
hands,  "being  so  short.  But  if  you're  going  to  be  in  style,  I 
say,  be  in  it.  Don't  be  half-way  betwixt  and  between,  as  if 
you  wasn't  sure  what  was  what.  I'm  not  so  pleased  with 
the  high  collars  though — they're  terrible  for  a  neck  as  near 
nothing  as  mine  is." 

The  two  sat  in  the  comfortable  living  room  of  the  West 
house.  It  was  bright  with  ingrain  carpet  in  red  and  tan, 
shiny  oak  rocking  chairs,  fringed  chenille  table  covers  and 
portieres.  Miss  Becca  gazed  at  her  surroundings  with  open 
pleasure.  It  was  true  that  her  rotundities  were  somewhat 
reduced,  and  her  cheeks  were  wrinkled,  but  her  bright  little 
eyes  still  gleamed  with  quenchless  curiosity  and  interest. 

"I  certainly  like  the  way  you've  got  things  fixed  up  in 
here.  Rena  told  me  you'd  done  it.  And  I  said,  well,  with 
one  girl  grown  up  and  another  one  well  on  the  way,  they 
got  to  set  some  beau-traps."  She  chuckled,  shaking  with 
laughter. 

"Yes,  Virgie  was  Mead  set  against  all  the  old  things," 
said  Louellen  at  last.  She  had  a  piece  of  sewing  in  her 
hands,  and  her  quick  needle  went  on  as  she  spoke.  "All 
Mother's  old  cherry  and  walnut  had  to  go  up  attic.  I  didn't 
have  so  much  of  it,  though, — Annie  wanted  to  keep  it  and 
I  was  willing.  She  and  Hance  took  it  right  along  out  to 
California  with  'em,  and  she  says  at  first  it  was  the  only 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  181 

thing  kept  her  from  pret'  near  dying  of  homesickness.  I 
was  glad  she  had  it.  There  was  plenty  the  same  kind  here 
from  John  Henry's  folks.  My,  yes.  Even  the  darkies  won't 
take  it  as  a  gift  nowadays — they  say  it's  so  big  and  dark 
and  ugly.  All  the  same  I  like  it  better  than  this  mess  of 
varnish." 

"I  don't.  Give  me  the  new  things  every  time.  How's 
John  Henry  like  it?" 

"He'd  like  anything  if  Virgie  or  Bud  chose  it,"  said  Lou- 
ellen.  She  made  no  complaint.  She  merely  stated  a  fact. 
"Of  course  Bud  don't  care  anything  about  this  stuff,  or  any 
other.  He's  a  regular  boy.  It'd  be  funny  if  he  did." 

"My,  my,  Louellen,  seems  queer  to  me  to  see  you  with 
three  great  big  children  when  I  can  mind  you  as  nothing 
but  a  little  tot  yourself.  Tempus  does  fugit,  as  old  Mr. 
Horsey  wrote  to  Maria  Fountain.  And  Annie  with  three, 
too,  just  the  same  selection  as  yours,  two  girls  and  a  boy. 
I  wish  your  Ma  could've  lived  to  see  'em." 

*Ma  never  was  the  same  after  Pa  died,"  said  Louellen, 
going  on  with  her  sewing  unmoved.  This  was  Miss  Becca's 
customary  epic  of  old  times.  It  was  recited  each  time  she 
came.  "She  just  pined  away.  Seemed  to  me  I  could  fairly 
see  her  going,  soul  and  flesh  both.  She  never  had  any  hold 
on  things  after  they  moved  to  town.  Couldn't  get  used 
to  it.  She  kept  all  of  Pa's  little  things,  Miss  Becca,  his 
watch  and  his  big  pocketknife  and  his  shiny  black  ruler 
that  used  to  be  in  his  desk,  and  his  pens,  tied  up  together, 
right  in  her  top  bureau  drawer.  The  paper  was  all  creased 
from  her  opening  them  to  look  at  when  she  was  in  her 
room  by  herself.  I've  got  'em  yet,  just  the  way  she  left  'em." 

"I've  seen  many  a  woman  go  all  to  pieces  when  her  home 
was  broke  up,"  said  Miss  Becca,  rocking  joyfully,  "many 
and  many  a  one.  I  think  the  breaking  up's  most  as  hard 
as  death." 

"Yes,  it  is,"  said  Louellen.  She  dropped  her  sewing  and 
looked  off  with  darkened  eyes.  "I  remember  something  else 
— you  know  our  clock  with  the  glass  door  and  the  basket  of 


182  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

fruit  painted  on  it?  Well,  I  wrapped  it  up  and  laid  it  in  a 
box,  and  Edward,  he  was  our  old  colored  man,  he  said  he'd 
nail  a  strip  over  to  keep  it  steady  and  from  getting  broken, 
and  when  he  begun  to  drive  in  the  nails  the  hammer  strokes 
echoed  in  the  clock — 'Han!  Han  Han!' — that  sort  of  a 
sound,  loud  and  dreadful  and  sort  of  wild,  and  right  up  to 
that  time  I  hadn't  thought  so  much  about  it,  but  I  saw 
Mother's  face.  She  threw  out  her  hands  like  she  was  push- 
ing something  off  her,  and  she  opened  her  mouth,  and  her 
eyes  got  wide — oh — and  every  blow  Edward  struck  to  a 
nail  the  clock  would  holler  again,  'Han !  Han !  Han !' 
like  it  was  begging  somebody  to  come  help  it — oh,  me — I 
thought  I  should  perish,  it  hurt  me  so.  I  went  up  to  Mother, 
and  put  my  arms  round  her  and  held  her,  and  she  was 
stiff  as  a  tree-trunk.  And  then  she  give  way  and  cried — 
out  loud — almost  screams."  Louellen  drew  a  long  harried 
breath.  "I've  never  told  a  living  soul  about  that  before. 
When  Annie  asked  me  if  I  wanted  the  clock,  after  Mother 
died,  I  said,  my  soul,  no.  Every  time  I  looked  at  it  I'd've 
seen  Mother,  breaking  her  heart  so." 

"It's  the  truth,"  agreed  Miss  Becca.  "Little  things  the 
dead  has  left  will  hurt  you  worse'n  a  cut  with  a  knife  some- 
times." She  turned  back  to  lighter  themes,  patting  her 
richly  curled  dark  front  with  an  appreciative  hand.  "Why 
don't  you  touch  up  your  hair  a  little,  Louellen?  You're  a 
sight  too  gray  for  your  years." 

"I  haven't  got  the  time  or  the  inclination.  I  leave  such 
goings-on  for  gay  young  things  like  you,  Miss  Becca."  The 
hard-etched  severity  of  her  face  relaxed  into  an  affectionate 
smile  for  her  old  friend.  "What  say  we  sit  out  on  the 
porch?  It's  close  in  the  house  to-day."  She  rose,  and  still 
holding  her  sewing,  ushered  her  guest  through  the  front 
hall  to  the  porch.  A  group  of  rustic  rocking  chairs  waited 
occupancy,  and  at  one  end,  half  in  the  sunshine,  an  old 
buffalo  robe,  a  dark  and  hairy  square  with  a  scalloped  tat- 
tered edge  of  scarlet  cloth,  was  laid  flat.  On  it,  in  a  tum- 
bled heap,  absorbed  in  a  book,  sat  a  young  girl.  At  the 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  183 

sound  of  steps  she  slid  the  book  behind  her,  apprehensively. 

"My  lands,  it's  Judy,"  exclaimed  Miss  Becca,  blinking. 
"Sitting  so  doubled  up  I  didn't  make  her  out  for  a  minute. 
Come  here  and  give  me  a  kiss.  Well,  ain't  she  getting  tall  ?" 

Judy  obediently  rose,  dropped  her  book  and  the  apple  she 
was  eating,  revealing  herself  slender,  but  well  grown,  with  a 
child's  manner  and  a  child's  engaging  smile. 

"Oh,  Miss  Becca, — I'm  glad  to  see  you !"  She  frankly 
hugged  the  guest. 

"And  I'm  glad  to  see  you,"  exclaimed  Miss  Becca,  warmed 
by  this  enthusiasm.  "Shooting  up  like  a  weed — tall  as  your 
mother  pret'  near.  And  as  gay  as  a  posy." 

It  was  true.  Judy  was  a  creature  in  the  primary  colors, 
red  cheeks,  yellow  hair,  blue  eyes,  all  luminous  and  vivid 
with  youth,  untouched,  fresh,  delectable,  yet  with  something 
of  sensitiveness,  of  frailty  about  her  brows  that  her  physique 
belied,  but  that  made  her  undeveloped  beauty  flower-like 
and  appealing. 

"I  hope  you've  come  to  stay  a  long  time,"  she  said.  "I 
do  believe  you're  using  some  sort  of  new  cologne."  She 
sniffed  at  Miss  Becca  mischievously. 

"Go  along,"  protested  the  old  lady,  delighted.  "You  find 
out  everything.  Yes,  it  is  a  new  kind — I  told  Jeff  Bangs 
in  the  drug  store  I  was  sick  and  tired  of  White  Rose,  so  I 
got  me  a  bottle  of  Jockey  Club  this  time  instead.  How 
d'you  like  it?" 

"Grand.  And  I  like  your  dress,  too.  It's  new,  too, 
isn't  it?" 

"Yes,  miss,  it  is.  And  I've  got  another  new  one.  And  if 
you  come  and  help  me  unpack  before  supper,  I'll  show  it 
to  you." 

Judy  retreated  to  her  book  and  her  apple,  with  a  little 
skip  of  pleasure.  "All  right.  I'd  love  to." 

Miss  Becca  looked  after  her  fondly.  "Judy  don't  favor 
Virgie  and  Bud  none,  never  did.  Looks  more  like  your  side 
of  the  family  with  that  corn-silk  hair.  Not  like  you,  exactly, 
either.  You  wasn't  so  fair." 


184  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

"Everybody  says  she's  the  image  of  Annie  when  she  was 
little,"  said  Louellen  decisively,  a  thread  of  vigilance  in  her 
voice,  "and  I  think  so  myself.  Annie's  hair  got  darker  as 
she  grew  older,  though.  Judy's  got  a  lot  of  Annie's  ways 
about  her,  too.  You  know, — lively,  and  easy  hurt  in  her 
feelings.  I  must  show  you  the  picture  Annie  sent  last  month 
of  her  children,  Miss  Becca.  Remind  me  if  I  forget  it." 

"I'd  love  to  see  it.  Wisht  Annie  didn't  live  so  far  away. 
Does  she  ever  say  anything  about  coming  back  East?" 

"No.  Hance  has  done  so  well  out  there,  and  they  like  it. 
But  I  miss  her — seems  as  if  it  gets  more  instead  of  less,  the 
longer  she's  away.  Her  being  so  far  leaves  me  without  any 
close  kin,  as  you  might  say.  Father's  and  Mother's  folks 
have  thinned  out  so.  There's  no  use  talking,  nobody  can 
keep  track  of  cousins  when  they  get  up  in  the  seconds  and 
thirds,  unless  they're  somewheres  near  by  where  you  can 
set  eyes  on  'em  occasionally." 

"Ain't  it  so !"    Miss  Becca's  eyes  wandered  back  to  Judy. 

"What's  that  she's  sitting  on — an  old-time  buffalo  robe, 
ain't  it  ?  Now  that  takes  me  back — time  was  when  ever'body 
used  to  have  one  for  driving  in  bitter  weather,  but  you 
don't  hardly  see  any,  nowadays.  Was  it  your  Pa's?" 

"Yes.  I  have  it  dragged  out  here  most  every  bright  day. 
The  sun  keeps  the  moths  away.  It's  a  heavy  old  thing,  not 
any  use,  but  there — it's  like  life.  We  get  all  cluttered  up 
with  things  we  don't  ever  use,  but  can't  seem  to  throw 
away." 

"Ain't  it  so!"  exclaimed  Miss  Becca  again.  She  medi- 
tated on  the  superfluities  of  existence  dreamily.  Then  her 
eyes  snapped  open. 

"What  you  reading,  Judy?" 

"A  book  I  got  out  of  the  Sunday  School  library.  It's 
called  'Juliette,  or  Now  and  Forever.' " 

"Put  it  away  before  your  Pa  comes  in,"  said  Louellen. 
"You  know  he  don't  like  to  catch  you  reading." 

Judy  gave  an  impatient  twitch  of  her  young  shoulders. 
"But  this  came  out  of  the  Sunday  School  library,  Mother. 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  185 

i 

He  don't  mind  them  so  much.  And  I've  done  everything  I 
had  to  do,  to-day,  every  single  thing." 

"Where's  Virgie?" 

"Upstairs  sewing  on  her  white  organdie  dress." 

"Don't  you  want  to  get  yours  and  sit  here  with  Miss 
Becca  and  me  and  sew  on  it  awhile  ?" 

Judy  looked  up  intently,  laughter  in  her  eyes.  "Now, 
Mother,  you  know  I  want  to  read.  I'll  get  the  dress  done 
in  time  for  the  rally." 

But  Louellen  persisted.  "Go  and  get  it  anyway,  and  I'll 
run  the  hem  in  for  you.  Maybe  you'll  get  tired  of  reading 
after  a  little  and  want  to  sew." 

Judy  felt  the  pressure  of  reasons  unsaid,  insistence  with  a 
motive  unexpressed,  but  no  less  urgent.  She  rose  reluc- 
tantly and  went  into  the  house. 

"She  reads  too  much,"  said  Louellen  to  Miss  Becca,  ex- 
plainingly. "Her  Pa  and  I  don't  like  it." 

"Makes  the  eyes  weak, — reading,"  agreed  Miss  Becca. 

Presently  Judy  returned,  her  arms  full  of  airy  fabric,  her 
sewing  bag  dangling  from  her  arm. 

"That's  real  sweet-pretty,"  said  Miss  Becca.  "I  do  like 
to  see  the  young  girls  all  decked  out  in  white.  Blue  sash 
for  Judy,  I  reckon." 

"Yes,  and  red  for  Virgie.  She's  going  to  have  five  ruffles 
and  I'm  going  to  have  three.  She's  going  to  whip  lace  on 
hers.  But  I  told  Mother  that's  too  much  work  for  me." 

"You'll  catch  a  beau  in  all  that  finery,"  prophesied  Miss 
Becca.  "I  und'stand  Virgie's  going  with  the  young  min- 
ister." 

Judy  giggled.  "Bud  says  he  don't  know  if  it's  Mammy 
Rachel's  fried  chicken  or  Virgie  that  Willy  Todd's  after." 

"You  Judy — you  ought  to  be  ashamed,"  rebuked  Miss 
Becca,  smilingly.  "Well,  I  never  did  see  a  Meth'dis  preacher 
that  wasn't  fond  of  fried  chicken — laws  knows  they  must 
eat  enough  of  it,  one  year's  end  to  another.  Minister  com- 
ing— kill  a  chicken,  beat  biscuit,  stir  up  a  chocolate  cake. 
That's  the  ticket.  Young  Willy's  a  right  nice  boy — not  that 


186  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

I  think  he'll  ever  be  the  equal  to  his  Pa  in  awesomeness — 
the  P'siding  Elder  was  the  only  preacher  I  ever  listened  to 
who  could  make  me  feel  my  sins  was  as  scarlet.  Hon- 
estly, he  used  to  scare  me.  I'd  go  home  and  look  at  my  silk 
dresses  and  my  dyed  hair,  and  make  up  my  mind  I  was 
nothing  but  a  wicked  old  rattle-trap,  full  set  on  vanity  and 
nothing1  else.  But  the  next  day  I'd  get  over  it.  A  body 
can't  live  with  hell-fire  forever  scorching  at  their  heels,  I 
say." 

Judy  had  left  her  book,  and  taken  a  chair  at  Miss  Becca's 
side.  Carefully  she  turned  and  pressed  in  the  narrow  hem 
of  her  ruffling,  her  hands  a  little  unsure,  but  painstaking. 

"Preachers  used  to  talk  a  lot  more  about  eternal  punish- 
ment than  they  do  now.  It  makes  me  laugh  to  myself  some- 
times, Miss  Becca,"  said  Louellen.  "As  if  we  didn't  get 
our  punishment  for  everything  we  do  right  here  on  earth. 
More,  sometimes,  than  it  seems  like  we  deserve.  And 
we  get  punished  for  things  we  do  ignorantly,  or  without 
any  bad  intentions,  just  like  we  do  for  things  we  do  with 
our  eyes  open,  and  a  full  sense  of  wrong.  Sometimes 
worse." 

"That's  not  orthodox,"  said  Miss  Becca,  who  dearly  loved 
this  sort  of  argument.  "Not  orthodox  at  all.  I  don't  hardly 
think  you  ought  to  say  such  things  in  front  of  little  pitchers 
here.  And  it's  only  half -true,  Louellen.  Why,  look — here 
you're  neighbor  to  Mart  Bladen.  All  his  life  he's  been  a 
regular  rapscallion,  if  ever  there  was  one.  And  what  hap- 
pens to  him?  Nothing.  He  raises  first  rate  crops,  he 
goes  around  with  everybody,  and  has  a  good  time,  he — " 

"But  Uncle  Mart's  a  good  man,"  broke  in  Judy  ve- 
hemently. "He's  the  kindest — and  he  never  does  a  mean 
thing.  He's  good  even  if  he's  not  pious.  Can't  anybody 
be  that?" 

"He  takes  the  name  of  the  Lord  in  vain, — swears  like  a 
string-team  driver,  as  a  matter  of  fact.  He's  always  playing 
cards — and  cards  are  the  devil's  picture  books.  He  gets 
drunk,  and  raises  Cain  here  and  there.  Not  that  I  don't 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  187 

like  Mart,  and  always  did.  I'm  just  using  him  as  an  illus- 
tration." 

"He's  a  good  neighbor,"  said  Louellen,  her  face  bent 
over  her  sewing.  "He  and  John  Henry  get  along  right 
well.  John  Henry  used  not  to  like  him  much,  but  they're 
neighborly  enough  now." 

"Maybe  John  Henry  thinks  he's  going  to  save  Mart's 
soul.  If  he  does,  he's  laid  out  a  hard  job  for  himself." 

Judy  grew  very  red.  "Unc'  Mart's  soul  doesn't  need 
saving." 

"Ssst !"  cautioned  Louellen.  "That's  not  the  way  to  speak 
to  Miss  Becca.  She  was  only  joking." 

"Yes,  I  was,"  said  Miss  Becca,  "and  I'd  say  it  to  Mart's 
face,  and  laugh  at  it  with  him,  if  he  come  by.  So  don't 
fly  up,  Judy.  Make  allowance  for  old  folks'  foolishness." 

But  Judy  was  not  to  be  appeased.  She  sat  grave  and 
silent,  her  face  clouded,  busy  with  her  work.  Louellen, 
glancing  at  her,  was  aware  of  her. 

"Run  around  and  ask  Rachel  if  she  made  the  cheese-pie 
I  told  her  about,"  she  said.  "I  thought  you'd  relish  an 
old-fashioned  cheese-pie,  Miss  Becca." 

"Haven't  eat  one  since  I  was  here  last,"  exclaimed  Miss 
Becca  with  joy.  "Relish  it — I  guess  I  could.  You're  a 
great  hand  to  keep  on  with  the  old  ways,  Louellen. 
Goodness  knows  I  like  the  newfangles  they're  always  bring- 
ing out  well  enough,  and  nobody,  not  even  my  worst  enemy, 
would  accuse  me  of  being  behind  the  times,  but  there  was  a 
flavor  to  the  old  dishes  that  was  mighty  satisfying.  But 
nobody  makes  'em  much  nowadays.  When  did  I  ever  eat  a 
piece  of  Togus  loaf?  And  who  makes  milk-rising  bread?" 

"We  have  it  now  and  again  during  the  summer,"  said 
Louellen.  "I'll  have  Rachel  make  some  whilst  you're  here." 

Judy  came  back  and  sat  down  again.  "The  cheese-pie's 
in  the  oven,"  was  her  report.  "Say,  Mother — look — there 
comes  Unc'  Mart  now — along  the  road.  He  promised  he'd 
bring  me  some  candy — Hoo-oo — hoo-oo!"  She  called  and 
waved  both  arms,  then  ran  wildly  down  the  lane. 


188  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

"Mart  spoils  the  children  a  good  bit,"  said  Louellen,  look- 
ing after  her,  impassively.  "They're  real  fond  of  him,  Judy 
especial." 

They  could  see  the  big  man  on  the  horse  rein  in  at  the 
call  and  dismount.  Judy  flung  her  arms  around  him  and 
kissed  him,  then  followed  a  droll  rummaging  through  his 
pockets,  the  capture  of  a  fat  paper  bag,  its  hasty  opening, 
and  a  red  and  white  peppermint  found  a  quick  road  to  her 
red  mouth.  They  walked  up  the  lane  together,  the  docile 
horse  with  dropped  rein  following. 

Miss  Becca  came  to  the  edge  of  the  porch  to  welcome 
the  newcomer.  "Speak  of  the  devil  and  his  imps  appear," 
she  called  out.  "We  was  just  making  mince-meat  outa 
your  character,  Mart." 

"You  better  be  careful,  or  I'll  tell  some  of  the  things  I 
know  about  you.  Miss  Becca,  you  look  prime.  No  use  ask- 
ing how  you  are,  for  you're  younger  and  spryer  than  ever. 
How  you  do  it  beats  me, — got  a  recipe  to  pass  round  to  an 
old  man?  Good  evening,  Louellen — how's  everybody?" 

He  stood  straight  and  tall  before  them.  Flesh  had  padded 
his  body,  but  not  in  ungainly  fashion.  He  had  grown  mas- 
sive, but  not  fat.  His  blue  eyes  were  still  clear  and  mirthful, 
and  though  the  years  had  put  lines  of  dissipation  in  his  face, 
and  lines  of  self-indulgence,  for  all  that  he  was  palpably 
a  man  of  strength,  the  diverted  master  of  his  vices,  and  not 
their  slave. 

"You  an  old  man!"  scoffed  Miss  Becca.  "You'll  never 
get  old !  They'll  have  to  knock  you  in  the  head  if  they 
want  to  kill  you." 

"No  such  luck.  Why,  I'm  getting  so  that  if  I  ride  more'n 
twenty  miles  or  so  I  feel  it  next  day.  And  my  best  girl, 
here" — he  flung  his  arm  around  Judy — "my  best  girl  here, 
she  likes  me  only  for  candy,  and  when  you've  got  to  the 
place  where  cupboard  love's  the  only  thing  the  girls'll  give 
you,  you  may  as  well  make  up  your  mind  to  settle  down 
by  the  fire." 

"Save  some  of  that  candy  for  Virgie  and  Bud,"  said 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  189 

Louellen  to  Judy,  who  was  deep  in  the  bag  again.  "Come 
up  and  set  awhile,  Mart,  won't  you?  You've  been  into 
town,  I  suppose."  She  did  not  look  directly  at  him,  nor  he 
at  her,  but  their  manner  was  wholly  unembarrassed.  A 
little  stiff  perhaps,  but  not  enough  to  suggest  to  the  most 
suspicious  that  any  self-conscious  spark  of  old  fires  might 
yet  remain. 

"Yes,  do  come  up,  Unc'  Mart,"  said  Judy,  hastening  to 
bring  a  chair.  "Here,  set  down  by  me.  Oh  my,  these  are 
good  pep'mints.  No  licorice?" 

"He  was  out  of  licorice.  You're  like  a  six-year-old  for 
licorice."  If  he  did  not  look  at  Louellen,  his  eyes  dwelt 
continually  with  lingering  fondness  on  Judy. 

"I  love  it." 

"Maybe  Miss  Becca  would  enjoy  a  piece  before  you've 
fingered  it  all  over,"  suggested  Louellen. 

Judy,  dashed,  passed  the  candy  bag  to  Miss  Becca. 

"I  didn't  mean  to  be  greedy,"  she  murmured.  "Don't 
you  want  some,  too,  Mother?" 

But  Louellen  shook  her  head. 

Miss  Becca,  a  peppermint  drop  bulging  her  cheek  to  a 
likeness  of  its  former  curve,  exclaimed  over  Mart's  horse. 
"Look  at  that  dumb  beast — more  sense  than  most  humans, 
I'll  bet.  How'd  you  train  it  so,  Mart?" 

Mart  reached  for  a  candy  and  offered  it  to  the  attentive, 
docile  animal.  "I  didn't  do  much.  Horses  and  dogs  just 
naturally  do  for  you  if  you  like  'em.  Chloe  here  wouldn't 
stand  a  minute  for  Ephum — wouldn't  hardly  let  him  mount 
her,  for  that  matter."  Chloe,  smacking  her  lips  over  the 
tidbit,  cocked  knowledgeable  eyes  at  her  master,  aware  that 
she  was  discussed.  She  sidled  toward  him,  daintily,  and 
he  put  out  an  affectionate  hand,  slapped  her  shining  neck, 
rumpled  her  smooth  mane.  She  tossed  her  head  and  drew 
away,  offended.  "She  don't  like  that,"  he  laughed,  "any 
more  than  Judy  here  if  I  mussed  up  her  hair.  Well,  I  got 
to  put  for  home.  All  very  well  to  sit  on  the  front  porch 
and  chat  with  the  ladies,  but  us  farmers  have  got  to  keep 


190  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

an  eye  on  the  field  hands  this  time  of  year.  I'll  bet  John 
Henry's  right  out  with  'em  this  minute.  Don't  catch  him 
going  to  town  any  day  but  Sunday  when  it's  planting  time." 

"It's  different  with  John  Henry,"  said  Miss  Becca.  "He's 
got  a  growing  family  to  provide  for.  You're  an  old  bach 
with  never  a  care — though  how  you  ever  managed  to  get 
away  from  the  girls  I  don't  understand.  If  I'd  a'  been 
young  when  you  was,  Mart,  you'd  have  had  to  step  double- 
quick." 

"Now,  Miss  Becca, — you  know  you  only  got  to  say  the 
word,  any  time." 

"Go  'long,  you  scamp — "  she  tittered,  flattered.  "You 
always  were  the  greatest  hand  to  soft  sawder!" 

"Soft  sawder  nothing!  That's  the  way  you  treat  my 
broken  heart — " 

She  loved  the  rough  banter.  "It  never  was  broken,  Mart, 
as  I  heard  of,  but  it's  pretty  well  dinted  and  battered  up,  I 
don't  doubt." 

He  caught  Chloe's  rein,  put  a  foot  in  the  stirrup,  and 
swung  himself  into  the  saddle.  "Why  don't  you  come  over 
and  see  me  before  you  go,  Miss  Becca?  Sally's  kind  of 
crippled  with  rheumatics,  but  she  can  still  make  a  spice-cake. 
I'd  be  right  glad  to  see  you.  Get  Judy  here  to  fetch  you." 

"Yes,"  she  retorted,  "  'f  raid  it'll  start  scandal  if  I  come 
by  myself,  I  suppose.  My  reputation  can  stand  it,  I  thank 
you — even  if  yours  won't." 

"That's  it,"  he  laughed.  "That's  it  exactly,  only  I  was  too 
modest  to  make  my  brags  about  my  own  reputation.  Well, 
you  come,  anyway."  He  waved  his  hand  and  rode  away. 
Miss  Becca  looked  after  him  admiringly. 

"Just  as  good-looking  as  when  he  was  a  boy,"  she  said. 
"And  just  the  same  come-day-go-day  Mart.  It's  a  wonder 
some  girl  didn't  get  him.  Delia  Layton  tried  hard  enough, 
goodness  knows.  Even  now  they  say  she's  crazy  about  him, 
and  she's  been  married  to  old  Al  Chaires  this  ten  years  or 
more.  Everybody  knows  she  only  took  Al  as  a  last  grab 
in  the  grab-bag.  Mart  never  had  any  time  for  her,  and 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  191 

never  made  any  bones  about  it.  I  oughtn'to've  twitted  him 
about  having  no  family,  though.  Seemed  to  me  I  saw  a 
shadder  kind  of  come  over  his  face  when  I  did.  The  laws 
knows  his  two  sisters've  got  plenty,  and  over  at  Sudlers- 
ville,  where  I  was  visiting  Manie  Towers  week  before  last, 
I  heard  that  it's  nip  and  tuck  between  'em  as  to  who'll 
make  the  most  of  Mart,  and  get  his  land  and  his  money 
when  he  dies." 

"Oh,  Miss  Becca,"  exclaimed  Judy.  "Don't— don't  talk 
about  Uncle  Mart  dying." 

"Judy's  real  tender-hearted,"  interposed  her  mother 
swiftly.  "She  never  can  bear  to  think  about  death.  Used 
to  cry  herself  sick  if  one  of  her  kittens  died." 

"I  don't  like  the  idea  of  it  much  better  myself,"  con- 
fessed Miss  Becca,  frankly.  "Well,  my-o,  here  comes  John 
Henry !" 

Around  the  corner  of  the  house  appeared  the  master  of 
it,  still  tall  and  dark  and  gloomy  of  countenance,  an  effect 
heightened  by  the  beard  that  he  had  let  grow  in  his  middle 
age,  which,  with  the  upper  lip  shaved  bare,  gave  him  a 
severe  and  ascetic  aspect.  More,  it  was  as  if  the  passing 
years  had  laid  a  cloud  of  darkness  on  the  man,  dimmed  him, 
thwarted  and  placed  bars  before  him  against  which  his  soul 
forever  waged  a  furtive,  desperate  struggle.  For  all  his  air 
of  autocracy,  for  all  his  increased  assertiveness — and  it  had 
increased — there  was  an  uncertainty  about  him,  too  slight, 
perhaps,  to  be  noticed  by  any  but  himself.  His  voice  had 
lost  none  of  its  harsh  and  decisive  timbre.  His  smile  was 
still  a  contortion  of  the  facial  muscles,  unlighted  by  his  eyes. 
He  greeted  the  guest  amiably  enough. 

"How  do,  Miss  Becca,"  he  said,  shaking  hands.  "You 
got  here,  did  you?  I  thought  I  saw  a  livery  team  driving 
up,  but  I  wasn't  sure.  How  are  you?" 

"Nothing  to  complain  of.  How're  you?  You're  not  put- 
ting on  any  flesh,  that's  one  sure  thing." 

"I  guess  I'm  not  the  fleshy  sort.  Even  if  I  was  inclined 
to  it  I'd  run  it  off  me,  I'm  so  pushed  with  work.  Seems'if 


192  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

the  niggers  get  more  worthless  every  year.  What  I  come 
round  for  now  was,  I  want  Judy  should  go  on  out  to  the 
field  and  drop  melon-seed  for  Bud." 

"Judy  and  Virgie  can  both  go,"  said  Louellen,  softly. 
"I'll  call  Virgie." 

"I  don't  need  more'n  one.  Judy  can  do  it.  Run  get  your 
sunbonnet,  Judy,  and  hustle  out." 

Louellen's  tone  did  not  alter.  "Yes,  Judy,  you  run  along 
and  help,  and  when  you  get  half  the  field  planted  come  on 
in,  and  Virgie'll  go  out  and  finish  it."  She  did  not  stop 
sewing  as  she  spoke.  John  Henry  gave  her  a  rancorous 
glance,  but  was  silent.  "Don't  stand  gawping  there  all 
afternoon,"  he  said,  brutally,  to  Judy.  "Do  as  you're  told, 
can't  you?" 

Judy  flushed  piteously,  her  blue  eyes  seemed  ready  to  spill 
tears,  but  she  was  obedient.  She  vanished,  and  so,  after  a 
moment,  did  John  Henry.  There  seemed  nothing  more  for 
him  to  say. 

Louellen  kept  on  sewing.  "I  try  not  to  favor  one  of  the 
girls  more'n  the  other,"  she  said.  "John  Henry  kind  of  feels 
Judy's  nothing  but  a  child  yet,  and  Virgie's  a  young  lady, 
and  he  don't  like  to  call  on  her  for  the  odd  jobs  she  used 
to  do.  But  there's  only  a  little  over  three  years'  difference 
between  'em,  and  I  don't  think  there  should  be  any  distinc- 
tion made.  Virgie's  too  much  inclined  to  stay  in  the  house 
anyway.  And  Judy's  a  tomboy — when  she's  not  got  her 
nose  buried  in  a  book." 

"They're  both  nice  girls,"  said  Miss  Becca  impartially — 
"everybody  says  so.  I  don't  deny  Judy's  a  little  mite  my 
favorite,  but  that's  because  she's  younger,  I  expect,  and  got 
such  little  kittenish  cuddling  ways.  She  sort  of  draws  you. 
Virgie's  cooler,  not  so  open-hearted.  More  like  her  Pa. 
Judy's  like  you  used  to  be." 

"Yes,"  said  Louellen,  evenly,  "Judy's  like  what  I — used 
to  be." 


CHAPTER  TWO 

MART  BLADEN,  riding  homeward,  had  no  consciousness 
of  lingering  sting  in  Miss  Becca's  words  about  his  bachelor* 
hood.  The  spring  satisfied  him,  renewed  his  content  with 
life.  Each  year  he  loved  it  more,  for  it  had  ceased  to  waken 
in  him  any  troubling  emotions,  any  regrets,  any  bitterness 
of  desire  unfulfilled.  He  had  closed  the  book  of  his  youth, 
accepting  life  as  movement,  yielding  now  as  he  had  yielded 
then  to  the  inevitable  march  of  time  and  circumstance. 
There  was  about  him  no  suggestion  of  tragedy  and  upheaval 
such  as  had  ravaged  and  burnt  John  Henry  and  Louellen. 
His  simple  heart  had  served  him  well,  protecting  him  from 
the  cost  of  too  much  and  too  intense  feeling.  He  was  not 
insensible,  but  he  found  it  impossible  to  look  either  back  or 
forward.  The  present  sufficed  him  wholly. 

So  now  this  spring  day,  warm  as  late  June,  flinging  its 
urgency  on  the  waiting  land  that  all  the  veins  of  life  still 
torpid  and  sluggish  there  from  winter  might  be  quickened 
to  movement  and  increase — this  day  sent  Mart  Bladen  along 
his  road  home  well  satisfied.  There  were  sweet  odors  in 
the  air,  from  the  new  leaves,  from  the  fresh  earth.  He 
sniffed  them  relishingly.  There  were  so  many  good  smells 
that  he  remembered, — hay-fields  with  the  emerald  clover, 
mown  down,  the  fallen  stalks  showing  the  gray  underside 
of  their  drying  leaves ;  sweet  grass  by  the  roadside  with 
night  dew  on  it;  white  pear  blossoms  as  heady  as  fruit 
liquor;  Sweet  Gale  that  grows  in  the  marshes,  breath  of 
August  afternoons ;  little  spicy  swamp  magnolias ;  sassafras 
and  sweet-gum  leaves ;  balsam ;  wild  honeysuckle,  matted 
and  clinging;  apple  pomace  lifted  in  a  thick  round  cake 
from  the  cider  mill ;  fallen  leaves  burning  in  heavy  autumnal 
incense.  He  ran  them  over  in  his  thought,  dwelling  on 
them  as  one  dwells  on  memories  of  loved  faces.  It  was  a 

193 


194  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

good  world.  He  spoke  to  Chloe.  "Tired,  old  lady?  Go 
'long — you're  not  tired.  B'lieve  I'll  ride  you  down  to  Tucka- 
hoe  to-night  yet,  so  don't  go  playing  me  any  tricks."  She 
tossed  her  head  petulantly.  "That  makes  you  mad,  huh? 
Don't  you  get  lazy,  Chloe.  You're  nothing  but  a  colt,  yet." 

A  little  farther  there  was  a  tremendous  disturbance  among 
the  crowded  roadside  bushes  and  a  white  setter  with  brown 
spots  leaped  out  at  him,  barking,  jumping,  wriggling  in  a 
passion  of  welcome  so  intense  that  it  amounted  to  frenzy. 
Mart  leaned  to  pat  the  wildly  bobbing  head,  and  the  dog 
quieted  himself,  and  grinned  up  at  his  master  with  affection 
and  comprehension.  "Well,  I'm  a  son  of  a  gun !"  said  Mart. 
"You  been  waiting  here  behind  the  fence  ever  since  I  started 
to  town.  Caesar — you  old  rascality !  Don't  you  know  you 
oughta  been  home  taking  care  of  the  place?  Ain't  you  an 
old  rascality,  hey?  You  bet  you  are.  Sticking — round — 
here — waiting  for  his  master  to  come  home,  was  he  ?  Trying 
to  snap  my  stirrups  off,  was  he?  Laughing  and  hollerin' 
dog-fashion,  was  he?  You're  a  funny  one,  you  are." 

The  dog,  quieted  by  the  loved  voice,  ran  on  ahead,  and 
led  the  way  to  the  house,  waving  his  tail  like  a  flag  of  joy. 
The  long  lane  of  tulip  trees,  taken  from  the  woods  as  saplings 
and  planted  by  a  Bladen  of  former  generations,  had  not 
greatly  increased  their  girth  nor  their  spread  since  Mart's 
youth.  They  were  majestic  trees  of  dignity  and  grace.  To 
Mart,  riding  under  them,  they  were  a  comJnonplace,  yet 
to-day,  in  their  tender  spring  renewal,  they  called  him  to 
look  at  them. 

"Tulip-trees  the  prettiest  thing  that  grows,"  he  told  them. 
"I  wisht  I  knew  just  which  granddaddy  Bladen  it  was  who 
was  so  fond  of  'em.  He  did  a  darned  good  trick,  planting 
'em  for  me."  He  looked  on,  up  to  the  house.  "Hello, 
somebody's  here.  That's  Doc  Tithelow's  shay — I  know  it 
by  its  low-hang.  Hustle  up,  Chloe." 

The  chaise  was  just  turning  to  go,  Ephum  standing  at  the 
side,  as  he  cantered  up.  "Hello,  Mart,  how  are  y'?"  called 
the  doctor.  "I  was  passing  and  dropped  in,  thought  I'd 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  195 

leave  a  bottle  of  liniment  for  Sally.  And  there  was  some- 
thing else — Joe  Kemp's  dead." 

"The  deuce  you  say!  When  did  it  happen?  Say,  light 
and  come  in,  Doc.  Stay  to  supper." 

The  doctor  hesitated.  "I  don't  know  but  I  will.  There's 
no  reason  why  I  should  get  back  to  town  till  this  evening." 
He  climbed  heavily  out  of  his  chaise.  "Ephum,  don't  feed 
my  horse  too  heavy — he's  been  colicky  lately.  Let  him  have 
a  drink  of  water  now,  and  feed  later." 

"Yessir,  yessir,"  said  Ephum,  at  the  horse's  head. 

"And  tell  Sally  Doc'll  be  here  for  supper,"  added  Mart. 

The  two  men  went  into  the  house  as  Ephum  disappeared 
with  the  horse  and  chaise.  The  big  bare  sitting  room  was 
dull  with  coming  evening.  Mart  stooped  and  lit  the  fire, 
already  laid,  on  the  hearth.  "We  don't  really  need  it,  it's 
so  warm,"  he  said  apologetically,  "but  it  livens  things  up. 
Set  down,  Doc,  and  I'll  pour  you  out  a  little  nip  o'  liquor. 
So  Joe's  gone,  is  he?  I  didn't  know  he  was  so  near  the 
end.  When  did  he  go?" 

"This  morning.  God,  I'd  hate  to  die  like  he  did.  Suffer ! 
That  man  suffered  like  hell.  All  the  morphine  I  could  stuff 
into  him  wouldn't  ease  him  off.  His  guts  were  rotted  green 
with  liquor." 

Mart  had  taken  a  decanter  of  whiskey  from  the  cupboard, 
and  a  couple  of  glasses.  He  poured  out  the  liquor,  stiff 
drinks,  three  fingers  high.  "Wait  a  minute."  He  went  out 
and  came  back  with  a  thick  old  glass  pitcher  filled  with 
cold  water.  "Shall  I  pour  some  in,  or — ?" 

"I'll  take  mine  neat."  The  Doctor's  heavy  fingers  gripped 
the  glass,  and  lifted  it  eagerly  to  his  lips.  "I  needed  that," 
he  said.  "Prime  stuff,  Mart." 

"It's  the  finest  Baltimore  rye,  and  I  got  this  barrel  direct 
from  Henry  Walters,  let's  see — I  reckon  I  won't  say  how 
many  years  ago.  No  use  reminding  myself  how  fast  I'm 
shoving  along." 

They  sat  before  the  fire,  the  whiskey  on  the  table  between 
them,  the  flames  mounting,  giving  color  and  cheer  to  the 


196  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

bleak  whitewashed  walls,  the  battered,  uncared-for  fur- 
nishings. 

"I  reckon  I'll  ride  over  to  Joe's  after  supper,"  said  Mart. 
"There  might  be  something  I  could  do.  I  don't  suppose 
Tillie'll  have  enough  left  to  pay  the  undertaker.  Old  Billy 
Galloway's  held  a  mortgage  on  the  place  for's  long  as  I 
c'n  remember.  Now  he'll  close  in,  the  damned  old  spider. 
Well,  Joe  was  a  good  fellow — his  own  worst  enemy,  as  the 
saying  goes." 

"Never  knew  how  to  use  his  liquor.  But  there,  he  was 
like  all  the  Kemps,  heady  and  go-as-you-please,  and  they 
all  had  a  queer  streak.  You  don't  recollect  Joe's  great- 
uncle,  old  Cap'n  Tom  Kemp,  do  you?" 

Mart  laughed.  "Just  barely — funny  little  old  man,  little 
hands  and  feet,  like  a  girl's,  lazy  as  the  devil,  always  on 
horseback.  People  used  to  say  he  slept  in  the  stable,  so's 
to  mount  his  horse  soon  as  he  woke  up.  He  was  a  curio. 
But  he  could  ride!  I  mind  him  galloping  down  the  road 
like  a  streak  when  I  was  a  youngster  in  my  mother's  lap, 
sitting  his  horse  straight  as  an  arrow." 

"Yes,  he  was  a  curio.  I  was  there  when  he  died,  and 
he  called  his  wife  and  his  oldest  boy.  'I'm  a-dying,'  he  says, 
as  determined  and  as  chipper  as  you  please,  'and  I  want 
you  to  promise  me  to  bury  me  with  my  coffin  half  way  out 
of  the  ground,  f'r  I  expect  to  go  straight  through  hell  and 
back  again,  and  then  I  want  to  look  round  and  see  what  the 
damn  niggers  are  doing!'  It  was  right  after  the  'manci- 
pation proclamation  he  died.  I  was  home  on  a  furlough — 
that's  how  I  happened  to  'tend  him.  I  was  thinking  about 
it,  there  with  Joe,  this  morning.  He's  got  a  little  of  the 
look  of  old  Cap'n  Tom,  only  bigger,  of  course." 

They  lapsed  into  silence,  until  Ephum  brought  in  lamps. 
"Suppeh  raidy,"  he  announced,  and  they  went  out  to  a  meal 
of  cold  sliced  ham,  hot  potato  bread,  split  and  buttered, 
creamed  potatoes,  cottage  cheese,  hard-boiled  eggs,  sun- 
preserved  raspberries,  wine-colored,  thick  with  rich  sweet- 
ness, pound  cake,  a  golden  mound. 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  197 

"Sally  say  not  much  suppeh  to-night,"  apologized  Ephum, 
"she  'low  her  mis'ry  was  so  bad  she  di'n  get  roun'  ter  what 
she  laid  out  t'  have." 

"I  guess  we  can  make  out,"  said  Mart. 

"I  can  always  make  out  when  I  get  some  of  your  home- 
cured  ham,"  said  the  Doctor,  relishingly.  "That's  the  meat 
I  love." 

"Ephum,  you  go  on  out  to  the  smoke-house  and  get 
down  a  ham  and  wrap  it  up  and  put  it  in  Doc's  shay,"  com- 
manded Mart.  "Don't  say  a  word,  Doc — we  got  plenty. 
I  only  hope  you'll  enjoy  it." 

"Poor  Joe,"  began  Mart  presently,  "he  was  a  wild  one. 
Good-natured,  too,  when  he  wasn't  in  liquor,  but  an  ugly 
customer  when  he  was.  Tillie's  had  a  hard  row  to  hoe." 

"She  ought  to've  left  him.    Nobody  would've  blamed  her." 

"Yes,  they  would,  too.  You  mightn't  and  I  mightn't, 
but  you  know  most  people  would've  said  it  was  her  place 
to  stick  to  him,  no  matter  what  he  did." 

"I  suppose  you're  right.  There's  a  high  average  of  do- 
mestic faithfulness — on  the  surface  at  least — all  through 
this  county.  I  remember  when  I  first  came  down  here 
from  the  North,  when  I  was  a  young  man,  noticing  and 
thinking  about  it,  and  the  feeling's  just  the  same  still. 
Rough  on  women,  though.  They  talk  about  marriages  being 
made  in  heaven !  Why,  I  could  match  up  the  people  in  this 
neighborhood  a  damn  sight  better  than  heaven,  if  heaven's 
really  responsible."  A  shadow  passed  over  his  face.  He 
was  thinking  of  his  own  tiresome  shallow  wife  who  had 
been  a  weariness  and  a  thorn  to  his  comfortable  busy  ex- 
istence. Mart  did  not  notice. 

"Yeh — you're  mighty  smart,  Doc,"  he  answered  jocosely. 
"But  don't  you  set  yourself  up  too  much.  Just  because 
you're  in  at  all  the  bornings  and  the  dyings  don't  make  you 
out  any  divine  providence,  you  know." 

The  Doctor  retreated  to  safer  ground.  "It's  queer  how 
little  this  whole  community's  changed  in  twenty  years. 
Roads  are  better,  and  the  towns've  grown  up  some.  But 


198  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

folks  are  pretty  much  the  same.  Not  much  up,  not  much 
down.  The  Kemps  are  an  exception.  Now,  they  have  run 
out.  God,  but  Joe's  place  is  a  mess." 

"You  make  me  feel  kind  of  mean.  I've  fought  shy  of 
going  out  there  for  a  good  many  years  now — but  if  I'd 
known  he  was  in  straits — " 

"They're  worse  off'n  most  nigger  renters." 

"That's  terrible."  The  meal  was  over  and  Mart  was 
busy  lighting  his  pipe  with  the  eternal  fussiness  with  which 
a  man  goes  about  that  operation.  His  face,  in  the  spurt 
of  light  from  the  paper  spill,  was  clouded  with  distress.  He 
was  thinking  of  Joe  as  the  high-spirited  reckless  companion 
of  his  youth. 

The  two  men  drove  in  silence  to  the  Cross  Roads,  Chloe 
cantering  easily  beside  the  Doctor's  chaise.  As  they  were 
to  part  Doctor  Tithelow  reined  in. 

"If  there's  any  question  about  money,  I'll  be  glad  to  chip 
in,  Mart,  and  so  will  a  good  many  others  round  town,  I 
know.  Not  worth  while  letting  Tillie  know  where  it  comes 
from." 

"O.  K.  I'll  see  what's  needed.  If  it's  not  too  much  I'll 
handle  it  myself, — might  just's  well.  Joe  and  me  used  to 
be  good  friends." 

At  the  Kemp  house  there  were  confusion  and  disorder. 
Tillie  Kemp,  lean,  haggard,  bent,  was  scrubbing  furiously, 
a  lamp  with  broken  chimney  beside  her  on  the  floor.  She 
looked  up  drearily  as  the  door  opened,  showing  no  surprise. 

"Oh,  it's  you,  Mart.  Go  in  the  setting  room.  He's  not 
been  brought  down  yet,  because  the  coffin  hasn't  come. 
He's  upstairs  on  the  bed." 

"Tillie,  you  oughtn't  to  be  doing  this,"  said  Mart,  pity- 
ingly. "Where's  your  children?  Or  isn't  there  somebody 
else—?" 

She  swished  the  wet  scrub  rag  in  her  hand  nervously. 
"I  want  things  to  be  clean,  at  least,"  she  said  with  bitter- 
ness. "It's  poor  enough,  but  we  can  be  clean.  People 
will  be  coming,  and  I  don't  want  them  to  see  the  house 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  199 

dirty."  It  was  evident  that  she  was  overwrought  to  the 
point  of  hysteria.  She  hardly  knew  what  she  was  doing 
or  saying.  "I  sent  the  children  off  to  bed,  they  bothered 
me  so.  And  there  was  some  folks  in,  but  they  just  nosed 
round  and  asked  questions,  and  I  let  'em  see  they  wasn't 
wanted.  We  got  along  all  this  time  without  no  help,  and 
I  reckon  we  can  still  manage,  at  least  till  Joe's  in  the 
ground." 

A  door  was  opened  cautiously  and  a  boy's  head  appeared, 
dark  and  scowling  and  unhappy. 

"I  told  you  to  go  on  up  to  bed,"  shrilled  Tillie. 

Lee  Kemp  opened  the  door  and  stood  revealed,  a  lad 
of  seventeen,  strong  but  gangling  and  awkward.  "I  ain't 
going  to  bed  and  leave  you  down  here,  Ma,"  he  protested. 
"I  told  you  I  wasn't.  I'd've  wiped  up  that  floor  for  you, 
and  you  know  it.  Good  evening,  Mr.  Bladen — "  He  looked 
helplessly  at  Mart. 

"Yes,  and  it'd've  been  as  dirty  as  ever.  What  d'you  know 
about  doing  things  right?  Seems  like  everything's  against 
me,  Mart.  I — I  don't  know  what  to  do — "  Desolate 
tears  began  to  trickle  down  her  gray  cheeks,  and  she  wiped 
her  eyes  with  her  apron.  Mart  stooped  and  lifted  her  to 
her  feet. 

"There,  Tillie,  there.  Come  on  in  here  and  let's  talk  a 
little  about  what's  to  be  done.  Lee'll  finish  up  the  floor,  if 
it's  got  to  be  wiped  up  to-night.  Come  on  in  here,  that's 
a  good  soul." 

He  led  the  crying,  shaking  woman  into  the  sitting  room, 
and  an  untidy,  scared  girl,  younger  than  Lee,  appeared. 
"Why,  here's  Kate.  Kate,  you  take  your  mother  off  up- 
stairs to  bed,  and  don't  leave  her  come  down  again.  I'll 
stay  and  watch  to-night.  You  go  'long,  Tillie.  That's 
right."  He  spoke  to  her  very  much  as  he  spoke  to  Chloe, 
coaxing,  but  firm,  and  finally  she  yielded  and  went  off  with 
Katie's  arms  around  her.  Mart  shook  his  head  as  he  turned 
back  to  the  hall. 

Lee  was  trying  to  finish  the  scrubbing  and  making  a  very 


200  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

poor  hand  at  it.  "Didn't  any  of  the  neighbors  come  in?" 
asked  Mart.  "Or  offer  to  stay  to-night?" 

"Mis'  Statum  and  her  sister  come,  but  Ma  sent  'em  off. 
Ma  thought  they  was  just  curious  to  see  how  poor  we  were." 
Lee's  voice  was  defiant,  but  his  boy's  face  was  forlorn. 
Mart  watched  him  appraisingly.  He  had  long  ago  ceased 
his  intimacy  with  Joe  Kemp,  whose  name  had  become  a  by- 
word for  worthless  shiftlessness  and  continuous  squalid 
sprees,  and  he  knew  nothing  about  the  boy,  remembered 
him  only  vaguely  as  an  unkempt  little  figure  that  hung  to 
Tillie's  skirts.  But  there  was  something  about  the  dogged 
defiance  of  the  lad  that  touched  and  held  him. 

"Throw  out  that  dirty  water  and  wipe  your  hands,"  he 
said.  "I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

"I'll  finish  this  first.    Ma'll  want  it  clean." 

Mart  lowered  his  height  to  the  bare  boards  of  Joe  Kemp's 
ramshackle  floor.  "Doggoned  if  I  don't  help  you,"  he  said, 
and  rolled  back  his  wristbands  forthwith. 

The  two  worked  with  awkward  puffing  endeavor,  until  at 
last  the  floor  was  clean,  cleaner,  at  least.  Then  they  went 
back  to  the  kitchen  and  washed  their  hands  under  the  pump. 
Everywhere  were  signs  of  poverty,  shiftlessness.  Lee  made 
no  comment, — he  neither  concealed  nor  revealed.  His  frown 
and  his  unhappiness  had  lightened  a  little,  for  here  was  a 
man,  a  real  man,  who  was  treating  him  as  an  equal. 

"I  expect  you've  been  trying  to  work  the  place  pretty 
much  yourself,  haven't  you?"  Mart  asked,  when  they  sat 
down  at  last.  "Had  right  hard  sledding,  I  expect." 

"I  got  along  all  right,"  said  Lee.  "I  got  things  started 
good  this  year.  But  it's  not  any  use,  now." 

"What  you  mean?" 

"Mr.  Calloway'll  foreclose.  I  expect  he'd've  done  it  any- 
way. He  was  threatening  he  would." 

"Well,  sir, — now,"  Mart  sucked  in  his  breath,  consider- 
ing. "And  what'll  you  do?" 

"I'm  going  to  work.  Ma,  she's  going  home  to  Grandpa 
Hignutt's.  He  told  her  a  long  time  back  soon's  Pa  was 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  201 

gone  he  wanted  her  to  come  keep  house  for  him.  Kate'll 
go  along  with  her.  Grandpa  Hignutt,  he'll  take  good  care 
of  'em,  though  he  wouldn't  do  a  hand's  turn  for  Ma  whilest 
Pa  was  alive.  Mr.  Bladen — Pa  was — all  right — when — he 
wasn't  drunk.  But  everybody  went  against  him  so — " 
The  boy's  lips  quivered  as  he  made  his  incoherent  protest 
against  the  injustice  of  the  world.  "If  folks  wouldn't've 
been  so  hard  on  Pa — and  kept  away  from  him  so — but 
everything  he  did — he  never  got  no  credit.  And  it  don't 
leave  us  no  chance.  Everybody  says — 'Oh,  you're  one  of 
Joe  Kemp's  children,  are  you?' — and — I  don't  know — it's 
not  right,  somehow.  I  don't  say  he  did  what  was  right, 
but — but — he  wasn't  half  as  bad  as  folks  thought." 

He  gulped  out  the  words,  trying  to  command  himself. 
Mart  saw  how  thin  he  was,  how  his  bones  showed  gaunt  in 
his  boyish  body,  how,  when  he  turned  his  face  toward  the 
light,  his  face  was  marked  with  care  and  anxiety  far  be- 
yond his  years.  "He's  not  had  enough  to  eat,"  thought 
Mart,  uncomfortably,  and  felt  a  fresh  pang,  remembering 
again  how  he  had  been  one  of  those  to  stay  away  from 
Joe  in  these  later  years.  And  this  forlorn  child  had  been 
hungry,  in  all  this  land  of  bounty. 

Unaccustomed  to  counsel,  he  groped  for  words  of  kind- 
ness and  advice.  "Shucks,  now  I  wouldn't  fret  about  what 
people  do — or  say,"  he  began.  "You  let  bygones  be  by- 
gones. Not  but  what  it's  right  for  you  to  stick  up  for  your 
father." 

The  boy  stared  before  him  dumbly.  His  suffering  hurt 
Mart.  Pain  was  so  alien  to  him  that  it  was  harsh  in  an- 
other, and  he  had  a  ready  sympathy  for  all  youth.  This 
tense,  unboyish  boy  stirred  him. 

"You  got  any  place  figured  out  where  you're  going  to 
work — or  figured  it  out  what  you'll  do  ?"  he  asked,  presently. 

"No,  sir.  But  I  can  hire  out  somewhere  round.  I  can 
do  a  man's  work,  any  day  and  all  day.  I'm  used  to  handling 
a  team." 

Mart's  ideas  came  slowly,  but  they  were  clear  and  lucid. 


202  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

"If  you  don't  get  anything  to  do  you'd  prefer,  I'd  be  glad 
to  take  you  on  for  the  summer.  I  need  another  hand,  some- 
body that'd  be  responsible,  and  look  after  things  pretty 
sharp.  I  got  to  be  away  end  of  the  month — jury  duty — 
and  the  niggers  soldier  on  me  outrageous  when  I'm  not 
right  there." 

Lee  listened  to  this  offer  with  alternating  suspicion  and 
pleasure.  "I — you  didn't  just  think  that  up — to — to  help 
me?"  he  asked,  hiding  a  throb  of  quick  relief  behind  his 
surliness.  "I  don't  want  any  charity.  I  can  earn  my  way." 

"I'd  expect  you  to,  if  you  work  for  me,"  said  Mart. 
"Don't  you  make  any  mistake — you'll  be  on  the  hop  from 
sun  up  to  sun  down,  and  maybe  a  leetle  mite  over,  some- 
times. You'd  have  to  do  your  work  thorough,  and  no 
slacking.  And  I  wouldn't  want  to  have  to  tell  you  any- 
thing more'n  once." 

"You  wouldn't  have  to."  He  was-  touchy  and  conceited, 
but  humble,  too.  "I'd  like  to  come  work  for  you,  Mr. 
Bladen,  if  you  think  I'd  do.  You — you  used  to  be  a  friend 
to  Pa." 

"I  was  always  your  Pa's  friend." 

The  boy  flushed.  "I  didn't  mean — "  he  began,  self- 
consciously. 

"I  know  you  didn't  mean  anything,"  said  Mart.  "Look- 
ahere,  Lee,  you're  pretty  well  tuckered  out,  I  expect,  setting 
up  with  your  Pa  nights,  and  all.  You  lay  down  on  the 
lounge,  and  I'll  set  up  and  keep  watch." 

"I  don't  want  to  go  to  sleep  and  leave  you  set  up  alone." 

"Don't  you  mind  about  that.  You've  got  a  hard  day  in 
front  of  you  to-morrow,  son.  There'll  be  a  lot  of  people 
coming  and  going,  like  there  always  is  after  a  death,  and 
you'll  have  to  meet  'em  and  talk  to  'em,  and  everything  like 
that.  I  don't  believe  your  Ma'll  be  much  good  to-morrow, 
so  you  get  some  rest  now." 

The  boy,  like  Tillie,  yielded,  but  reluctantly.  But  Mart 
had  judged  well  the  depth  of  his  weariness,  for  no  sooner 
had  he  thrown  himself  down  than  he  was  asleep,  a  deep 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  203 

devitalized  exhausted  sleep.  The  pain  and  sullenness  and 
bewilderment  at  the  cruelty  and  stupidity  of  the  world  that 
had  pinched  him  lifted  as  he  slept  and  he  became  supremely 
young,  faintly  smiling. 

Mart  watched  him.  "Poor  little  shaver,"  he  thought  with 
pity  and  self-condemnation.  "He  figures  that  every  man's 
hand's  against  him  on  account  of  Joe  being  as  he  was. 
He's  had  it  hard,  that  boy.  I  knew  folks  said  Joe  Kemp's 
boy  was  trying  to  work  the  farm,  but  I  didn't  look  into  it 
at  all,  and  here  he's  been  a  lifting  and  straining  and  striv- 
ing and  getting  nowhere.  Nothing  at  home  here  but  Joe 
drunk  and  Tillie  whining.  But  for  all  that  it  didn't  break 
down  his  spirit.  He's  got  real  gimp,  doggoned  if  he  hasn't. 
All  he  needs  is  a  chance." 

But  he  had  no  great  altruistic  motive.  The  boy  might 
come  and  work  for  him,  and  he  would  treat  him  fairly, 
pay  him,  feed  him, — that  was  all.  Even  as  he  lived  his 
own  life,  regardless  of  anything  but  his  own  tastes  and 
wishes,  his  own  ways,  his  own  will, — so  unconsciously  he 
ceded  this  right  freely  to  other  people.  Easy  with  himself, 
he  was  easy  with  the  rest  of  the  world.  No  reformer's 
nor  uplif ter's  nor  regenerator's  zeal  ever  troubled  him.  Life 
was  free  for  all  to  live  as  they  wished. 

The  boy  slept  heavily,  not  stirring.  Presently  Mart  tip- 
toed out  to  Chloe.  He  wished  he  did  not  need  to  leave 
her  in  the  open  yard  with  the  cold  spring  breeze  singing 
about  her.  There  must  be  a  shed  somewhere  ...  he  walked 
her  down  toward  the  barn  and  its  outbuildings,  going  slowly 
through  the  blue  haze  of  the  night.  Without  a  lantern  he 
•would  not  try  to  enter  the  stables,  but  he  found  a  leanto, 
and  backed  Chloe  into  it.  Sleepy  chickens  clucked  at  him 
from  its  interior. 

"There  now,  old  girl — you  can  roost  with  the  hens  to- 
night," he  told  her,  loosening  her  girths,  slipping  off  her 
bridle.  "At  least  you  won't  be  out  in  the  dew."  She 
nodded,  knowingly,  and  he  went  back  to  the  house. 

Strange,  to  be  here,  alive  and  quick,  with  Joe  Kemp  lying 


204  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

dead  above  stairs,  boisterous,  jovial  Joe,  loose-tongued, 
lazy  if  work  was  at  hand,  but  alert  and  anxious  for  any 
piece  of  deviltry.  Mart  was  glad  he  wasn't  sitting  up  in 
the  room  with  the  body.  Bad  enough  down  here.  This 
house,  sagging,  forlorn,  with  its  cracked  window  panes, 
its  broken  gaping  plaster,  its  scant  dilapidated  furniture — 
Mart  shook  his  head.  "Doc  was  right,"  he  thought.  "Joe 
never  knew  how  to  use  his  liquor.  That  was  the  trouble. 
Hope  the  boy  hasn't  inherited  it.  I'll  have  to  keep  the  stuff 
out  of  sight,  once  he's  over  to  my  place." 

He  frowned  at  that.  It  would  be  a  nuisance,  having 
the  boy  around  if  he'd  got  to  watch  his  P's  and  Q's.  It 
might  be  a  nuisance  anyway — suppose  he  didn't  get  on 
with  the  hands?  Oh,  well, — he'd  committed  himself.  And 
if  it  didn't  work  out  one  way,  it  would  in  another.  Mart 
was  not  one  to  borrow  trouble.  Besides,  he  was  secure  in 
the  confidence  that,  on  his  own  acres,  he  could  adequately 
handle  any  situation. 

The  long  hours  wore  slowly  away,  and  with  the  dawn 
Mart  bestirred  himself.  He  woke  Lee,  and  spoke  to  him, 
putting  money  into  his  hand.  He  respected  the  boy  enough 
not  to  offer  it  as  charity,  as  he  had  first  intended. 

"I'm  going  to  get  along  home,"  he  said,  as  the  boy  stared 
at  him,  still  heavy-eyed  and  hardly  comprehending.  "I 
thought  you  might  be  able  to  use  a  little  ready  cash — times 
like  these  unexpected  things  come  up.  So  you  take  this,  and 
tell  your  Mother  you've  got  it  when  she  comes  down.  But 
understand,  it's  a  loan  from  me  to  you,  and  you're  to  work 
it  out  when  you  come  to  work  for  me.  I'll  be  over  again 
before  the  funeral.  Tell  your  Ma  if  she  wants  me  to  be 
one  of  the  bearers  I'll  be  glad  to  do  it.  Understand?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Lee.  "I'll  tell  her.  Say— you're 
mighty  good — " 

"Leave  it,"  said  Mart.  "This  is  a  business  transaction 
betwixt  you  and  me." 

But  the  boy  went  out  with  him  into  the  early  morning. 
He  was  awake  now,  and  rested,  but  he  had  no  power  of 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  205 

self-expression.  He  followed  Mart  very  much  as  Caesar 
followed  him,  and  when  he  had  mounted  looked  up  at  him 
with  something  the  same  look  of  dumb  gratitude  that  shone 
in  Csesar's  eyes. 

"I'm  much  obliged  for  everything,  Mr.  Bladen,"  he  said 
huskily.  "I'll  pay  you  back,  every  cent." 

"Well,  sir,"  said  Mart  to  Chloe,  once  they  had  gained 
the  high  road  with  the  desolate  farm  behind  them,  "I'm 
glad  this  night's  over.  We'll  get  home  to  breakfast,  old  girl, 
you  and  me  both." 


CHAPTER  THREE 

THE  funeral  of  Joe  Kemp  made  but  a  very  slight  ripple 
in  the  current  of  local  events.  Old  Billy  Galloway  promptly 
foreclosed  the  mortgage  and  got  possession  of  the  home- 
stead, its  poor  stock  and  meager  rundown  equipment.  He 
put  a  tenant  there  who  was  half-carpenter,  half-farmer,  in 
order  to  get  his  repairs  made  free  of  all  cost  save  the  lumber. 
Tillie  Kemp  went  home  to  her  widower  father,  and  took 
Katie  with  her,  experiencing  the  first  peaceful  days  of  her 
life  for  over  a  decade.  And  one  May  morning  young  Lee 
appeared  at  the  Bladen  farm  with  all  his  earthly  posses- 
sions in  an  old  telescope  bag  of  frayed  linen  and  stringy 
leather. 

"I'm  ready  to  go  to  work,"  he  announced. 

"Did  you  walk  all  the  way  here  carrying  that?"  asked 
Mart,  wondering.  "It  looks  like  quite  a  heft." 

"No,  sir,  a  man  give  me  a  lift  part  way.  I  only  walked 
a  couple  miles.  It's  not  so  much  heft — only  there  was 
two-three  books." 

"Books,  hey?    You  like  to  read?" 

The  boy  hesitated  suspiciously,  but  Mart's  easy  way  had 
no  hint  of  ridicule. 

"Yes,  sir,"  he  said  painfully,  "but  I  won't  do  it  in  work- 
ing time." 

"Well,  there's  some  books  round  here,  up  attic  and  in 
the  sitting  room  closet  you  can  read  if  you  want  to,"  said 
Mart,  good-naturedly.  "I  reckon  maybe  you  like  to  eat, 
too.  I  used  to  when  I  was  your  age — I  was  one  of  the  hol- 
ler-legged kind,  never  got  filled  up.  You  come  in  now  and 
get  some  breakfast.  Sally'll  put  you  in  a  room  upstairs. 
I  sleep  down."  He  indicated  the  inner  door  with  his  pipe 
stem. 

Caesar  had  been  sniffing  at  the  new  arrival  and  the  boy 

206 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  207 

reached  an  eager  hand  to  him.  "Your  dog  looks  like  an 
awful  good  hunting  dog,"  he  ventured. 

"You  like  dogs?" 

"You  betcha."     It  was  emphatic. 

"I  like  dogs,"  said  Mart.  "And  I  like  horses,  and  I 
like  to  see  a  fellow  fond  of  'em.  And  I  don't  allow  any 
mean  treatment  of  any  animals  on  my  place.  I  figure  if 
a  man's  mean  to  animals  he's  mean  clear  through.  And  a 
mean  man  makes  a  mean  animal.  All  these  hard-headed, 
kicking,  runaway  horses — some  man  made  'em  that  way, 
probably  when  they  was  colts.  I  don't  ever  say  'break'  a 
colt.  I  gentle  my  colts.  You  any  good  with  horses?" 

"We  didn't  have  no  horses  worth  a  cent,  and  we  didn't 
have  much  to  feed  'em.  But  I  like  horses,  all  right."  He 
was  attacking  a  stack  of  batter  cakes  and  spoke  with  his 
mouth  full. 

"Soon's  you're  through  you  come  out  to  me — I'll  be  down 
at  the  barn.  I'll  show  you  my  horses." 

In  this  easy  and  informal  fashion  young  Lee  Kemp  took 
his  place  in  the  Bladen  domicile.  Mart,  watching  him  nar- 
rowly at  first,  found  that  all  he  had  said  of  himself  was 
true  and  that  his  nature  was  honest.  Nor  did  he  show  any 
signs  of  his  bad  inheritance.  Rather  he  was  too  quiet,  too 
repressed,  and  had  too  much  of  the  secret  sullen  air  that 
Mart  had  noticed  on  the  day  of  Joe  Kemp's  death.  It 
was  curiously  unyouthful,  almost  repellent.  But  he  was 
civil  and  respectful  and  went  at  all  the  tasks  assigned  him 
with  desperate  concentrated  energy.  Mart  expostulated: 

"Don't  take  it  so  hard,  son.  You're  making  me  out  a 
slave-driver." 

The  boy's  answer  revealed  him.  "I  want  to  do  extra," 
he  said  doggedly.  "I  want  to  show  there's  some  good  in 
the  Kemps." 

The  only  persons  with  whom  he  really  unbent  and  be- 
came as  young  as  his  years  were  Caesar  and  Sally.  Sally 
scolded  him,  railed  at  him,  carried  on  a  perpetual  sham- 
battle  with  him,  especially  finding  fault  with  the  size  and 


208  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

activity  of  his  appetite.  "Yo'  eats  lak  er  threshin'  machine. 
Brek  mah  back  ovah  de  stove  cooking  foh  yo'.  Eat,  eat, 
eat,  dass  all  you  do.  Nevah  see  such  an  eatin'  boy."  But 
her  grumbling  was  invariably  supplemented  by  the  offer 
of  some  cake  or  sweetmeat  she  knew  he  liked.  He  teased 
back  at  her:  "Worst  cooking  I  ever  tried  to  get  down — 
fairly  sticks  in  my  craw  when  I  try  to  swaller  it.  Whoever 
learned  you  to  cook,  anyway?"  They  would  both  laugh 
inordinately  at  such  raillery,  and  it  would  end  by  Lee's 
bringing  in  an  extra  armful  of  wood  or  bucket  of  water 
when  Ephum  had  been  neglectful. 

As  for  Caesar,  the  dog  came  to  love  Lee  with  an  affection 
that  rivaled  his  devotion  to  Mart.  When  no  one  was 
around  to  see,  Lee  would  play  with  him,  wrestle  him,  roll 
him  over,  ruffle  up  his  ears,  race  him  until  Caesar  was  in 
a  frenzy  of  dog-delight,  and  the  boy  almost  as  happy.  Plenty 
of  food  and  freedom  from  the  weight  of  care  he  had  been 
carrying  gave  Lee  ruddiness,  and  put  flesh  on  his  big  bones, 
and  he  even  began  to  grow  taller.  But  with  Mart  he  main- 
tained a  certain  reserve,  and  when  a  visitor  appeared  at 
the  farm  he  kept  out  of  sight,  would  not  come  to  the  table 
if  a  guest  stayed  for  a  meal,  but  asked  Sally  to  give  him 
a  snack  in  the  kitchen.  With  the  negro  hands  he  got  on 
well,  managing  them  with  an  ability  beyond  his  years. 

"Doggoned  if  he  don't  pay  for  himself,"  thought  Mart, 
more  than  once.  "Keeps  the  hands  up  to  time,  and  does 
his  own  share,  and  more,  right  along.  And  he's  good  with 
the  team." 

John  Henry  Hyde  regarded  the  venture  with  surly  dis- 
trust. "Und'stand  you  got  that  worthless  limb  of  Joe 
Kemp's  working  for  you,"  he  said  to  Mart,  meeting  him  at 
the  boundary  line  of  their  fields.  "Sh'd  think  you'd  be 
afraid  to  take  a  boy  like  that  into  your  house.  He's  liable 
to  steal  everything  you've  got  and  light  out,  or  maybe 
worse." 

"That's  where  you  and  me  differ,  John  Henry,"  said 
Mart,  genially.  "There's  nothing  in  this  God's  world  or 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  209 

out  of  it  that  I'm  afraid  of,  and  certainly  not  of  a  boy  that 
age.  Don't  go  passing  the  word  around,  either,  that  the 
boy's  liable  to  steal.  There  never  was  any  thieving  blood 
in  the  Kemps,  nor  likely  to  be.  Their  weakness  is  another 
kind — not  that  Lee  shows  any  signs  of  it." 

"Bad  blood's  bad  blood,  way  I  look  at  it,"  contended 
John  Henry.  And  they  parted  on  that  note,  Mart  adding 
the  cynical  reflection  as  his  neighbor  disappeared  from  view : 
"And  that's  what  they  call  a  good  Christian!  Well,  if  he's 
on  the  road  to  Heaven,  give  me  hell,  any  time." 

Later  he  thought:  "John  Henry's  not  looking  so  well. 
And  his  eyes  got  a  sort  of  setness  like  a  crazy  man.  But 
shucks, — he's  wiry.  He'll  outlast  me,  I  bet  you.  And 
he'll  not  go  crazy  neither.  Not  any  crazier  than  he's  always 
been.  He  never  was  quite  right,  to  my  way  of  thinking." 

He  had  always  kept  away  from  thinking  much  of  John 
Henry.  There  was  a  certain  uneasiness  in  all  his  feeling 
about  him,  a  sort  of  pity  tinging  his  inherent  dislike,  that 
had  forced  him  to  acquiesce  in  such  small  overtures  of 
friendship  as  John  Henry  offered.  The  gigantic  incompre- 
hensible tragedy  of  Mart's  life  that  had  culminated  in  his 
final  possession  and  his  final  and  absolute  loss  of  Louellen 
had  always  been  something  from  which  he  had  sheered 
away  in  his  thoughts  and  his  feelings.  It  was  too  big  for 
him,  he  had  no  measure  of  sensibility  for  it.  So  he  left 
it  alone  in  his  thoughts,  he  put  it  away  from  him.  Only — 
he  was  steadfast  that  he  would  have  no  other  woman.  And 
he  knew,  though  he  could  not  tell  how  he  knew,  that  Lou- 
ellen had  kept  her  word.  She  had  not  gone  back  to  John 
Henry,  or  the  soilure  of  her  lawful  conjugal  intimacy.  He 
was  as  sure  of  that  as  he  was  of  his  own  constancy.  It 
gave  him  a  strange  secret  exultance  to  think  of  that,  but 
even  so,  there  was  sometimes  a  haze  of  unreality  over  his 
conviction,  a  haze  engendered  by  the  sight,  always  near  him 
if  not  always  actually  before  him,  of  what  this  snarl  in 
which  their  lives  had  become  entangled  had  cost  both  Lou- 
ellen and  John  Henry.  They  had  not  escaped  unscathed, 


210  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

as  he  had.  They  had  grown  hard  and  strange  and  darkly 
sour.  They  had  had  the  bitterness  of  daily  contention,  of 
daily  contact,  violently  opposed.  It  had  dried  up  the 
springs  of  Louellen's  youth  and  left  her  drab  and  colorless 
and  hard.  It  had  intensified  the  black  undercurrent  of 
John  Henry's  emotional  life,  supplied  him  with  a  sore 
grievance,  no  less  sore  for  being  concealed.  Worse  for 
him,  for  he  had  been  beaten,  yet  he  had  the  satisfaction  of 
knowing  that  Louellen  had  paid  a  high  price  for  her  vic- 
tory. Lives  that  are  lived  in  a  smothered  flame  of  dissen- 
sion and  opposition  burn  out,  after  a  while,  leaving  a  gray 
and  poisonous  ash.  So  with  Louellen  and  John  Henry. 

Vaguely  Mart  knew  this  thing,  and  yet  it  passed  over 
him.  Even  for  John  Henry's  biased  distorted  view  of  his 
fellowmen,  his  lack  of  tolerance,  Mart  could  not  always 
feel  his  old  resentment.  His  own  tolerance,  wide  and  ready, 
warned  him  that  his  neighbor  had  been  warped  by  powerful 
and  malignant  forces,  of  which  he,  without  specific  inten- 
tion, had  been  the  lever.  So  Mart  left  John  Henry  and 
Louellen  alone  in  his  mind.  Here  was  the  day.  He  would 
live  in  it. 

But  he  hoped  that  John  Henry  would  not  pass  round 
the  word  that  Joe  Kemp's  boy  was  bad.  He  couldn't  per- 
mit that.  Lee  was  working  so  hard  to  show  that  there 
might  be,  even  in  this  downtrodden  branch  of  the  once 
respected  and  well-to-do  Kemp  family,  thrift  and  industry 
and  honesty.  "And  if  some  of  these  overbearing  Christians 
give  him  a  knock  in  the  face,"  thought  Mart,  "it  might 
throw  him  back  to  be  worse  than  his  Pa.  Boy  his  age  can 
go  just  as  hard  in  one  direction  as  he  can  in  another,  and 
it  don't  take  much  to  head  him  either  way." 

With  this  in  mind  he  tried  to  be  more  kind  to  the  boy, 
talking  to  him  friendliwise.  Once  he  came  on  him  at  his 
game  with  Caesar,  drawn  by  a  paean  of  joyous  yelps  and 
barks  behind  the  barn.  The  boy  stood  still,  abashed,  con- 
fused. 

"Doggoned  if  old  Caesar  isn't  laughing  just  like  a  hu- 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  211 

man,"  said  Mart,  with  reassuring  mirth.  "I  never  saw  him 
so  friendly  with  anybody  before.  He  won't  usually  let 
anybody  put  a  hand  on  him.  You're  quicker  on  your  feet 
than  I  thought,  young  man.  I  used  to  be  right  light  myself 
thataway.  Come  on,  I'll  race  you  down  to  the  road  and 
back." 

For  a  moment  Lee  stared  and  hesitated,  but  the  prospect 
of  sporting  competition  was  too  much  for  him.  He  was 
hard  on  Mart's  heels  before  they  had  gone  ten  yards,  and 
beat  him  fairly  by  a  good  margin. 

"Well,  sir,"  said  Mart,  laughing  and  panting,  "that's 
the  first  step  I've  run  in  I  don't  know  when.  I'll  have  to 
limber  up  if  I'm  going  to  run  foot-races  with  you." 

"I  thought  I  wasn't  going  to  beat  you,  you  was  so  closet 
all  the  way,"  said  Lee  eagerly.  "Mr.  Bladen — you  didn't 
let  me  win,  did  you?  It  was  a  fair  and  square  race, 
wasn't  it  ?" 

"Fair  and  square,  except  that  I  had  a  mite  the  best  at 
the  start,  so  I'm  licked  really  worse  than  it  looked.  Never 
mind,  I'm  going  to  supple  up  my  joints  and  challenge  you 
again." 

The  race  made  a  new  friendliness  between  them,  and 
thereafter  Lee  was  less  reticent,  more  open  with  his  mas- 
ter. In  his  heart  began  an  intense  devotion,  a  wordless, 
boundless  gratitude.  Mart  became  his  hero.  Nothing  was 
too  much  trouble  to  do  in  service.  In  small  ways  he  offered 
him  tribute,  an  extra  polish  on  the  harness  buckles,  tools 
sorted  and  put  away  with  care,  the  combing  and  trimming 
of  Chloe's  mane,  a  supershine  of  her  silken  coat.  If  Mart 
was  out  of  tobacco  Lee  would  be  off  to  town  for  it  before 
Mart  knew  it.  Boy-like  he  tried  to  walk,  to  talk  like  his 
deity. 

From  his  infrequent,  treasured  hours  of  reading  he  culled 
certain  noble  swashbucklers  in  each  of  whom  he  saw  some- 
thing of  Mart — a  strange  mixture — D'Artagnan,  Wallace, 
Richard  Cceur  de  Lion,  tinctured,  it  must  be  owned,  with 
something  of  a  more  recent  hero,  just  then  looming  large 


212  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

in  every  boy's  imagination,  John  L.  Sullivan.  With  these 
he  wove  and  flung  round  the  older  man  a  gallant  glittering 
cloak  of  fancy,  to  which  he  would  not  have  owned  under 
torture,  but  which  was  no  less  real  for  being  secret. 

Presently  he  was  to  have  other,  more  likely  material  for 
romance.  He  had  taken  on  himself  the  care  and  upkeep 
of  Mart's  fences,  and  made  a  round  of  them  now  and  then 
with  a  bag  of  nails  and  a  formidable  hammer.  He  had 
found  a  weak  spot  in  the  top  rails  of  the  back  field  pasture, 
and  was  intent  on  it  when  he  became  aware  of  some  one 
near. 

He  looked  up  and  there  was  Judy  Hyde,  staring  at  him 
with  the  liveliest  curiosity.  This  then  was  the  certain  limb 
of  Satan  and  child  of  sin  whose  presence  in  their  neighbor- 
hood her  father  so  deplored.  It  was  fascinating  to  be  in 
such  dangerous  proximity. 

"I  thought  you  was  Unc'  Mart,  at  first,"  she  explained 
her  presence  shyly.  "All  bent  over  the  fence  like  that.  But 
you're  not  as  tall  as  he  is."  He  wasn't  a  bit  mean  looking, 
she  thought,  only  rather  cross.  And  she  couldn't  be  afraid 
of  him — he  wasn't  any  older  than  Bud. 

Lee  flushed  at  the  slur  on  his  height,  and  forgot  to  be 
embarrassed  by  a  stranger,  and  a  girl  besides.  "I'm  mighty 
near  as  tall  as  Mister  Bladen,"  he  retorted,  drawing  him- 
self up  to  his  full  height. 

She  felt  she  must  explain  her  presence.  "I  was  looking 
for  dewberries.  Did  you  see  any  over  there?"  She  added, 
primly,  remembering  her  manners :  "My  name  is  Judy 
Hyde.  This  is  my  Pa's  farm." 

"Yes,  I  know.  There's  a  good  patch  of  dewberries  over 
in  that  far  field,  near  the  marsh.  Want  me  to  show  you  ?" 

He  led  the  way  in  silence,  but  the  sight  of  vines  dropping 
black  luscious  fruit  broke  down  Judy's  reserve.  "These 
are  simply  grand — I  wish  I'd  brought  a  bigger  basket." 

Lee,  too,  forgot  to  be  stiff  and  shy.  A  spirit  of  com- 
radeship awoke  in  him.  "I'll  get  you  one.  You  wait.  I'll 
come  right  back." 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  213 

He  started  off  on  a  run,  and  all  the  way  to  the  barn  and 
back  again  he  was  in  a  pleasant  haze.  He  had  never  talked 
to  any  girls  but  his  bedraggled,  complaining,  stupid  sister. 
Judy's  fair  color  had  filled  his  eyes.  Why,  she  was  the 
prettiest  thing  he  had  ever  seen.  And  she  was  nice.  She 
was  as  nice  as  another  boy.  His  thoughts  were  ingenuous 
enough,  but  with  this  last  ran  a  tingling  suggestion  that 
he  was  glad  she  wasn't  another  boy. 

He  handed  her  the  basket  he  had  brought  without  a  word, 
staring  again  at  her  bright  clarity. 

"Much  obliged — I'm  glad  it's  a  good  big  one.  I'll  pick 
enough  so's  you  can  take  some  up  to  Sally  and  then  you 
and  Unc'  Mart  can  have  dewberry  roly-poly  for  supper. 
Kind  of  funny — to  give  Unc'  Mart  his  own  berries."  They 
found  the  idea  comic,  and  laughed  together.  Their  friend- 
ship was  progressing  with  each  moment. 

"I'll  help  you  pick  soon's  I  get  a  couple  rails  nailed  on 
the  fence  over  there." 

"Look,"  she  cried  after  him.  "I  wish  you  wouldn't  nail 
up  that  top  rail.  I  can't  get  over  half  so  easy  if  you  do, 
and  this  is  the  best  way  down  to  the  river.  I  always  cut 
across  here." 

"You  got  a  boat?" 

"Goodness,  don't  I  wish  we  had!  No,  Pa  don't  believe 
in  people  going  out  in  boats.  He  says  it's  wasting  time,  un- 
less you  fish,  and  there's  nothing  in  the  river  worth  catch- 
ing. But  I  go  down  there  and  look  at  the  water,  and  some- 
times I  go  in  wading.  Wish  I  could  swim." 

"I  can  swim." 

"Boys  can  do  anything,"  agreed  Judy,  enviously.  "They 
have  a  lot  better  time  than  girls." 

"Of  course  they  do,"  agreed  Lee.  "Men  and  boys  have 
to  do  all  the  work  and  girls  just  laze  round  any  way  they 
want.  Oh,  yes,  boys  have  all  the  fun — certainly." 

"Fresh !"  She  turned  away  to  her  picking  and  he  swag- 
gered over  to  the  fence.  Yes,  this  certainly  was  a  nice 


214  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

girl.  He  had  never  thought  much  of  girls,  judging  them  all 
by  the  standard  of  his  own  womenfolk.  But  this  girl — 
whew,  she  was  pretty! 

He  hammered  away  for  a  while,  then  returned.  "I  fixed 
that  top  bar  loose,  so's  you  can  slide  it  back  when  you  want 
to  climb  over.  Now  if  you'll  let  me  have  one  of  the  bas- 
kets—" 

They  picked  in  silence  for  a  while,  stealing  now  and  then 
inquisitive  glances  at  each  other.  "Do  you  like  it  over 
here  at  Unc'  Mart's?"  asked  Judy,  pausing  to  eat  a  hand- 
ful of  berries. 

"He's  the  grandest  man!"  proclaimed  Lee  with  solemn 
fervor.  "He's  been  so  kind  and  good  to  me.  And  he's 
so  easy-going — and  so  funny!"  His  limited  vocabulary 
failed  him  when  he  tried  to  express  his  estimate  of  Mart's 
character.  But  he  had  said  enough  to  make  Judy  like  him 
intensely. 

"I  think  so,  too.  I  think  he's  the  grandest  man  that  ever 
lived.  I  don't  care  what  people  say  about  his  not  being 
religious,  and  not  going  to  church.  I  don't  see  that  it 
makes  the  least  smitch  of  difference."  But  it  was  clear 
that  such  condemnation  had  hurt  her,  and  that  she  felt 
certain  qualms  at  going  against  the  doctrines  that  had  been 
ground  into  her  since  infancy.  No  member  of  John  Henry 
Hyde's  household  but  had  heard  a  thousand  times  the 
heinousness  of  non-attendance  at  church. 

Young  Lee  answered  her  with  real  canniness.  "I  don't 
see  that  going  to  church  makes  folks  any  better,  really, 
inside  of  'em,  I  mean,  or  even  what  they  do  and  say — ex- 
cept they  don't  swear.  It  only  makes  other  folks  think 
they're  good." 

"Why,  that's  so.     I  never  thought  of  that." 

"I  don't  think  old  Billy  Galloway's  a  good  man,  but  he 
goes  to  church  and  everybody  sucks  up  to  him,  and  calls 
him  'Brother  Galloway.'  Makes  me  sick." 

A  shadow  at  the  sound  of  the  name  of  Galloway  fell  on 
Judy's  ingenuous  face.  "Do  you  know  his  grandson?  Ed 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  215 

Galloway,  the  one  that's  got  the  big  farm  over  towards 
Harmony  Camp-ground?" 

"No — and  I  don't  wanta  know  him  if  he's  anything  like 
his  grandpa." 

Judy  came  nearer  to  him,  as  if  for  protection  against 
something  insidious,  unseen.  "I  think  he's  worse,"  she 
half-whispered. 

"Did  he  do  anything  to  you?"  asked  Lee,  ruffling  bellig- 
erently. 

"No — but — "  She  shook  her  head.  "He  got  converted 
and  he  comes  to  our  church,  but  I  don't  like  him.  Look 
there — our  baskets  both  full.  You  take  the  big  one  up  to 
Unc'  Mart  and  tell  him  I  sent  'em — with  my  love — and 
please  not  to  forget  how  much  I  like  licorice." 

She  turned  to  go,  but  Lee  forestalled  her.  "If  I  knew 
when  you  was  going  down  to  the  river  some  time,  maybe  I 
could  get  a  boat  somewheres,  and — and — we  could  row 
around  a  little,  early  evenings." 

"Will  you  take  me — really?  I'd  love  to  go!  I  don't 
know  just  when,  but  you  watch  out  for  me.  I'll  come 
first  day  I  can." 

"All  right.  I'll  watch  out.  I  don't  know  if  I  can  get  a 
boat,  but  I'll  try.  One  of  the  hands  said  his  brother's  got 
a  boat,  and  he  don't  live  so  far.  He's  a  tenant  on  the  Salis- 
bury place,  down  a  ways.  Say,  could  you  go  Sunday?" 

"But  won't  it  be  wrong — on  Sundays?"  She  asked  it 
childishly,  hoping  to  be  convinced  that  it  wouldn't. 

"What's  wrong  about  it?" 

She  knew  very  well  John  Henry's  creed  that  all  pleasant 
things  were  wrong,  but  she  wanted  awfully  to  go  out  on 
the  river.  "I  might  come  late  in  the  afternoon.  We  have 
to  go  to  church  in  the  morning,  and  Sunday  School,  and 
we  get  home  pretty  late.  My  Pa's  Sup'intendent  of  the 
Sunday  School,  you  know." 

"Yes,  I  know." 

"And  sometimes  we  bring  company  home  with  us.  If 
we  did  I  couldn't  get  away.  But  I'll  try." 


216  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

"I'll  watch  out  for  you." 

They  parted  with  this  promise.  Judy  kept  silence  at 
home  about  the  encounter.  She  had  heard  too  often  John 
Henry's  opinion  of  Mart's  bringing  the  boy  into  the  neigh- 
borhood. 

"But  he's  a  real  nice  boy,"  thought  Judy.  "He  don't  act 
wild,  or  mean  a  bit.  I  like  him  a  lot  better  than  I  do  Ed 
Galloway."  She  paused  to  find  a  word  strong  enough.  "I 
despise  Ed  Galloway." 


CHAPTER  FOUR 

YOUNG  ED  GALLOWAY,  as  distinguished  from  his  father, 
who  was  just  Ed,  second  son  of  "Old  Billy,"  was  one  of 
those  rare  young  men  who,  having  sown  a  plenteous  crop 
of  wild  oats  of  the  baser  sort,  had  turned  to  the  light  during 
a  great  revival,  advanced  to  the  mourner's  bench,  crying 
repentance,  and  at  last,  after  much  prayerful  striving,  had 
been  converted  from  his  former  life  into  a  supposedly  bet- 
ter, and  certainly  a  more  open,  one.  He  was  received  into 
the  church  where  his  grandfather,  a  bearded  and  sanctimo- 
nious money-lender  and  note-shaver,  shone  as  a  leader. 
It  happened  also  to  be  the  church  of  the  Hydes.  Old  Billy 
Galloway  was  glad  and  thankful  for  his  grandson's  change 
of  heart. 

"Now  the  thing  for  you  to  do  is  to  look  round  and  pick 
out  some  smart  healthy  gal  and  get  married,"  he  advised 
him  heartily.  "And  don't  go  cutting  your  eye  at  anybody 
without  property,  neither.  Plenty  of  pretty  girls  amongst 
well-off  folks,  and  if  they  shouldn't  be  quite  so  well-favored, 
the  money  makes  up  for  it." 

"Got  anybody  on  your  mind?"  asked  docile  Young  Ed. 

"Deacon  Hyde's  got  two  girls,"  the  old  man  said. 
"And  they'll  get  a-plenty  from  both  their  mother  and  their 
father.  Fact  is,  as  I  happen  to  know,  John  Henry's  took 
over  all  the  prop'ty  Louellen  was  left  when  her  mother 
died,  and  has  got  the  full  say  of  it.  We're  not  to  say  poor, 
Eddie,  but  there  never  was  a  man  who  couldn't  use  a  leetle 
more." 

It  was  counsel  that  fitted  in  well  with  Young  Ed's  own 
scheme  of  things.  He  was  twenty-seven  and  ready  to 
settle  down.  In  fact  his  sudden  conversion  and  general 
change  of  heart  had  been  occasioned  by  a  hideous  scare 
administered  by  a  more  than  usual  fearless  and  vindictive 

217 


218  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

shanty-boat  wench,  with  whom  he  had  been  familiar.  Young 
Ed  had  sought  the  safe  and  narrow  path  in  a  spasm  of 
cowardly  contrition.  No  more  shady  women  for  him.  A 
nice  clean  pretty  young  girl — marry  and  settle  down.  It 
would  be  a  wonderful  haven  of  peace  and  security. 

The  word  about  John  Henry  Hyde's  daughters  and  their 
future  inheritance  brought  him  to  a  seat  farther  up  in 
church  next  Sunday,  where  he  could  see  them  closely.  He 
did  not  know  them  well,  for  until  now  his  attention  had 
been  wholly  engaged  by  another  type  of  femininity.  He 
looked  them  over,  impartially.  Virgie,  a  dark  and  slender 
girl  at  the  height  of  her  bloom,  her  demureness  denied  by 
her  scarlet  sash  and  the  wreath  of  poppies  on  her  hat,  in- 
terested him,  drew  him.  She  would  do  very  well.  But 
after  the  service,  as  he  lingered,  he  took  note  that  Virgie 
lingered  also,  and  that  the  young  minister  hastened  down 
from  his  place  in  the  pulpit  to  her  side.  In  the  girl's  flut- 
tered complacence,  her  welcoming  hand,  young  Ed  inferred 
that  her  feelings  were  centered  on  blonde  and  eloquent 
^Willy  Todd  and  that  it  would  be  only  to  make  himself 
ridiculous  if  he  thrust  himself  before  her.  He  was  disap- 
pointed, sore — and  then  his  gaze  fell  upon  Judy,  who  had 
been  screened  from  him  by  her  mother  during  the  sermon. 

Judy  was  wearing  the  white  organdie  with  three  ruffles 
and  her  blue  ribbons,  with  cornflowers  on  her  hat,  which 
deepened  and  darkened  the  blue  of  her  eyes.  Young  Ed, 
beholding  her,  thought  that  she  was  young,  younger  than 
he  wanted,  but  that  she  was  worth  getting  acquainted  with. 
If  she  was  too  childish  and  namby-pamby  he  could  hunt 
elsewhere.  In  the  meantime,  a  ride  or  two  in  his  buggy 
would  commit  him  to  nothing,  and  his  grandfather  would  be 
pleased  with  him  for  following  his  lead. 

He  renewed  his  acquaintance  with  John  Henry.  "I  look 
to  you  for  a  good  bit  of  guidance,  Mr.  Hyde,"  he  told  him 
piously.  "It's  none  so  easy  for  me  to  come  into  church  and 
act  like  I'd  always  lived  a  life  like  yours.  I  realize  there 
may  be  some  who  don't  accept  my  conversion  as  sincere, 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  219 

but  of  course  the  only  thing  for  me  to  do  is  to  show  'em 
that  it  is.  If  there's  anything  you  think  I  ought  to  do, 
I'd  esteem  it  a  high  favor  if  you'd  tell  me.  I  don't  want 
to  seem  pushing." 

The  young  man's  deference  flattered  and  tickled  John 
Henry's  most  accessible  side.  To  be  looked  up  to,  to  have 
his  aid  and  direction  asked  for,  when  it  cost  him  no  money 
to  give  both, — what  could  be  more  agreeable! 

"I'll  do  what  I  can,  willingly,"  said  John  Henry,  with 
humility,  for  it  was  his  way  to  speak  of  himself  as  least 
in  the  Lord's  service.  "Maybe,  since  there's  to  be  no  after- 
noon meeting  to-day,  you'd  ride  along  out  and  have  dinner 
with  us.  The  Reverend  Todd  is  coming.  You  ought  to 
get  to  know  him  better,  now  you're  one  of  his  congregation." 

"I'd  be  pleased  to,  if  you  think  Mrs.  Hyde  won't  mind 
an  unexpected  guest." 

"No,  no, — there's  always  room  for  one  more  at  our 
table." 

"I've  got  my  team  here,  perhaps  I  could  take  one  of  your 
family  in  the  buggy  with  me,  long's  you've  got  the  Rever- 
end, unless  he's  driving  himself." 

John  Henry  hesitated.  Bud  had  driven  in  a  single  rig 
for  this  very  contingency,  the  arrangement  being  that  he 
and  Judy  would  drive  home  together,  while  Louellen,  Virgie, 
the  Reverend  Todd  and  John  Henry  occupied  the  carryall. 
It  would  not  be  exactly  conventional — since  there  was  no 
open  engagement  between  Virgie  and  the  young  minister — ; 
to  let  them  drive  off  alone  together.  It  would  seem  too 
pointed. 

"I  might  take  Miss  Judy,"  offered  Galloway,  and  it  was 
so  arranged.  Bud  would  not  mind  going  home  alone  and 
it  would  not  be  politic  to  refuse  Galloway's  offer,  when  he 
had  made  it  so  politely.  Judy,  flushed  and  excited  at  the 
prospect  of  a  buggy-ride  with  a  strange  young  man,  was 
packed  in  with  Young  Ed,  feeling  that  every  soul  in  the 
lot  of  home-goers  from  church  had  gimlet  eyes  and  that 
all  these  eyes  were  centered  on  her  new  adventure.  She 


220  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

sat  quite  stiffly  and  talked  little, — -at  first  from  shyness, 
but  before  they  had  covered  half  the  distance  she  was  silent 
from  dislike.  If  this  was  the  delight  of  having  a  beau  that 
Virgie  and  her  friends  giggled  so  about,  why,  then,  they 
were  very  silly,  and  she,  Judy,  would  prefer  to  stay  a  child, 
forever  and  ever. 

"How  do  you  like  my  trotter?"  Galloway  asked  her  as 
they  started  off  and  got  away  from  town. 

"He's  a  very  pretty  color,"  replied  Judy  with  great  prim- 
ness. But  she  had  not  spent  her  life  near  to  horses  without 
knowing  something  about  them.  "But  isn't  he  a  little  skit- 
tish?" she  asked,  seeing  how  restlessly  the  beast  pranced, 
and  how  he  tossed  his  head.  She  looked  more  closely. 
"Why,  you've  got  a  curb  bit  on  him." 

"You're  a  clever  girl  to  see  that.  Yes,  I've  got  a  curb 
on  him — he's  a  runaway.  But  he  don't  run  away  any  more, 
— not  with  that  on.  I  could  cut  his  mouth  open  three  inches 
and  not  hardly  feel  it,  in  my  arms,  I  mean.  And  before  he 
near  'bout  pulled  my  arms  out  of  their  sockets." 

"A  bit  like  'that's  cruel,"  said  Judy.  Uncle  Mart  had 
told  her  so,  many  times. 

"It's  not  cruel  if  he  behaves  himself,"  said  Galloway. 
It  was  hard  to  find  anything  to  say  to  her,  for  he  was  not 
used  to  this  sort  of  girl,  and  he  must  be  careful.  But  he 
found  her  flesh  tempting.  Her  cheeks  were  like  ripe  fruit. 

"I  wonder  just  how  old  you  are?"  he  asked,  insinuatingly. 

Judy  was  deciding  that  she  didn't  like  him,  and  she  found 
the  question  distasteful.  She  plucked  up  her  spirit.  "It's 
in  the  family  Bible,  out  home." 

He  liked  that.    "You're  very  sarcastic,  I  see." 

Judy  wondered  if  she  was  sarcastic.  She  didn't  know 
exactly  what  he  meant,  but  it  sounded  fresh,  and  he  was 
probably  making  fun  of  her.  So  she  wouldn't  answer  him. 

"You  like  to  go  buggy-riding?" 

She  couldn't  disregard  that.     "Oh  yes." 

"I'll  have  to  take  you  some  time." 

The  condescension  of  it  reminded  her  of   Bud  in  his 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  221 

lofty  moments,  such  as  all  brothers  occasionally  display 
to  younger  sisters,  so  she  answered  as  she  would  have  an- 
swered Bud.  "Oh,  don't  put  yourself  out." 

"By  George,  you're  sharp — I  thought  you  were  just  a 
nice  little  girl,  but  I  reckon  you  know  your  way  round." 
And  he  laughed. 

There  was  more  of  this  inconsequential  chatter,  but  it 
all  ruffled  and  fretted  Judy,  for  she  did  not  like  to  be  teased 
and  she  liked  even  less  the  way  he  looked  at  her.  When 
he  helped  her  out  of  the  buggy,  she  avoided  his  hand,  jump- 
ing nimbly,  regardless  of  her  ruffles.  She  ran  on  into  the 
house.  Young  Ed's  horse  was  a  good  one,  so  they  had 
reached  home  before  the  others,  and  there  was  no  one  she 
could  tell  but  Rachel.  She  hurried  to  the  kitchen. 

"Mammy  Rachel,  Pa  sent  me  home  with  Young  Ed  Cal- 
loway  and  I  certainly  don't  like  him.  He  makes  me  think 
of  a  toad.  His  hands  all  cold  and  kind  of  damp!  And 
he's  got  toad's  eyes." 

Rachel,  busy  with  dinner,  stopped  to  lean  and  peer. 
"Whut  Galloway  is  dat  you  say — Young  Ed  ?  En  you  ridin/ 
round  wid  him?  Yo  Paw  mus'  be  plumb  outen  he  haid. 
He  ain'  fitten — "  She  stopped,  drew  down  her  upper  lip 
and  stuck  out  her  lower  one  until  its  yellowish  lining  showed. 
This  was  her  way  when  deeply  suspicious  or  angry.  "You 
stay  in  here  and  holp  me  twell  de  res'  of  'em  git  yere," 
she  commanded.  "Comp'ny  er  no  comp'ny,  he's  trash. 
When  he  gits  his  hoss  put  up  he  c'n  set  in  de  pa'loh  en 
twirl  he  thumbs,  ef  he  be  so  minded.  You  go  on  up  de 
back  stair  en  tek  off  yo'  hat  en  git  yo'  ap'on.  I  gotter 
dozen  lil  chores  right  yere  f'r  you." 

She  kept  Judy  by  her  side  until  the  others  came,  but, 
peering  in  at  the  dinner  table,  later,  she  saw  that  Ed  Gallo- 
way was  seated  beside  the  girl.  Judy  was  her  darling  and 
she  had  always  resented  the  way  John  Henry  Hyde  treated 
her.  So  now  she  tossed  her  head  angrily  and  sniffed  and 
muttered  in  the  kitchen.  Young  Ed  had  roused  two  active 
dislikes.  But  John  Henry  was  pleased  with  him. 


222  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

He  took  Judy  sharply  to  task  for  her  indifference.  "I 
don't  want  to  see  any  more  such  uppishness  as  you  showed 
to-day  to  company  in  this  house.  Nobody  to  meet  Mr. 
Galloway  when  he  got  his  horse  put  up,  and  he  having  to 
sit  on  the  porch  till  we  got  home.  Either  you'll  behave 
properly,  or  you  can't  come  to  the  table." 

To  which  Judy  answered  nothing,  for  she  was  afraid  of 
John  Henry's  violence  against  her.  He  had  whipped  her 
cruelly  many  times  when  she  was  smaller,  and  he  never 
spoke  to  her  save  harshly.  But  she  talked  it  over  with 
Virgie. 

"Did  you  like  him,  Sis?    Did  you  think  he  was  nice?" 

"No,"  Virgie  admitted.  "I  didn't  care  much  for  him. 
But  he's  real  well  off,  and  he's  got  a  fine  team." 

"He  uses  a  curb  bit  on  his  horse.  That's  awful  mean. 
And  he  sat  there  talking  to  Pa  and  Mr.  Todd  like  butter 
wouldn't  melt  in  his  mouth.  I  wish  you'd  tell  Mr.  Todd — 
maybe  he'd  talk  against  him  to  Pa.  I  don't  want  him  to 
come  here  to  see  me." 

Virgie  was  sympathetic.  She  could  afford  to  be,  as  a 
girl  singled  out  for  the  attentions  of  the  young  minister. 
All  the  same,  she  was  prudent.  "Don't  say  anything  in 
front  of  Pa,  but  if  Ed  comes  round  again  treat  him  very 
cool,  and  show  him  you  don't  like  him,  and  he'll  probably 
go  off  and  hunt  up  somebody  who'll  be  nicer  to  him." 

"If  treating  him  cool  will  get  rid  of  him,  I'll  make  kirn 
think  he's  in  Greenland's  icy  mountains,"  promised  Judy, 
vindictively.  "Oh,  Sis — I  don't  want  a  beau  anyway,  not 
till  I  get  to  be  as  old  as  you,  and  then  maybe  I'll  get  a.  nice 
one  like  Mr.  Todd." 

"He  is  nice,  isn't  he?"  said  Virgie  with  rapture.  "And 
don't  he  preach  powerfully?  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  he  got 
to  be  Presiding  Elder  like  his  father  was.  Oh,  wouldn't  I 
be  set  up !" 

"You'll  make  an  awfully  good  minister's  wife.  You  al- 
ways know  just  what  to  say  and  do,  and  you  never  get 
excited  and  act  foolish."  Judy  was  wistfully  admiring  of 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  223 

Virgie's  behavior,  but  now  she  giggled :  "And  for  goodness' 
sake,  Sis,  don't  go  round  wearing  such  dumb  looking  clothes 
as  old  Mrs.  Truitt  used  to  wear.  'Member  her  bonnets? — 
looked  just  like  a  crow's  nest." 

"I  thought  about  that,"  confessed  Virgie.  "Of  course,  I 
suppose  I'd  have  to  give  up  wearing  red,  and  that's  a  pity 
for  it's  so  becoming  to  me.  But  I  don't  think  a  minister's 
wife  ought  to  wear  red,  unless  it's  very,  very  dark,  garnet 
color,  maybe,  or  something  like  that.  But  I  wouldn't  have 
to  wear  tacky  things.  Still,  I  won't  have  much  choice  on 
a  preacher's  salary." 

"Maybe  he'll  soon  get  a  better  charge." 

"Oh,  he's  bound  to.  But  I  wish  I'd  have  money  of  my 
own,  a  little.  If  Ma  hadn't  been  so  silly  and  let  Pa  take 
all  Gram 'ma  West  left  her — "  Even  Virgie,  his  favorite, 
had  no  illusions  about  her  father,  but  she  glanced  about 
uneasily  as  if  for  fear  he  might  hear  her,  and  she  lowered 
her  voice. 

"Oh,  Virgie — hush!"  cried  Judy.  It  was  disloyalty  to 
their  Mother. 

But  Virgie  had  a  mind  of  her  own,  and  she  could  re- 
member. "Ma  couldn't  help  it — he  nagged  at  her  so.  For 
a  good  man,  Pa  certainly  does  like  to  lay  up  treasures  here 
on  earth." 

"If  he  hears  you!  Oh,  it  isn't  right  to  say  things  like 
that." 

Virgie  had  half  scared  herself.  She  went  back  to  safer 
topics.  "If  Pa  gets  set  on  your  being  nice  to  Ed  Galloway, 
you'll  be  in  for  it." 

"Oh,  Virgie,  you  don't  think  he  will?" 

Virgie  was  in  guile  her  father's  own  child,  as  shrewd 
as  he. 

"Don't  let  him  see  how  you  feel,  then.  You  know  how 
he  is." 

Judy  knew  how  he  was.  She  had  lived  all  her  young 
life  in  the  shadow  of  his  displeasure.  He  had  denied  her 
as  much  schooling  as  the  others,  he  never  gave  her  the 


224  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

small  indulgences  which  he  sometimes  vouchsafed  Bud  and 
Virgie.  Once  or  twice  when  he  had  been  specially  partial 
and  unfair,  her  mother  had  risen  in  unaccustomed  spirit 
and  fought  it  out  with  him.  Judy  was  painfully  aware 
that  these  encounters  did  not  better  her  lot,  save  for  the 
moment, — rather  that  they  increased  his  venom  against 
her. 

As  a  very  little  child  she  could  recall  pressing  up  to  John 
Henry  with  the  two  others,  in  his  rare  moments  of  demon- 
strative affection  for  them,  and  always  finding  herself  re- 
pulsed. Virgie  and  Bud  sometimes  gained  his  knees  and 
the  circle  of  his  arms,  but  never  Judy.  "Take  this  child 
away,"  he  would  command  Louellen  or  Mammy  Rachel. 
If  there  was  a  treat  of  a  handful  of  peaches  or  apples  from 
the  orchard,  Judy  did  not  share  it,  unless  her  mother  in- 
tervened and  saw  justice  done.  Punishment,  swift  and 
severe,  attended  any  small  childish  mischief,  or  willfulness. 
As  she  grew  older,  she  learned  to  keep  away  from  him,  out 
of  his  sight  as  much  as  possible,  or  silent  at  least  when 
she  must  be  before  him.  But  slowly  there  had  dawned 
on  her  horizon  a  friend,  a  refuge,  Mart  Bladen. 

He  had  found  her  first  along  the  roadside,  where  she 
was  trudging  along  from  an  errand  to  one  of  the  tenant 
homes,  and  had  asked  her  name,  put  his  hand  on  her  head 
and  looked  at  her  long  and  hard,  and  at  last  picked  her 
up  and  taken  her  home  before  him  on  his  horse.  He  had 
kissed  her  when  he  put  her  down  and  rasped  her  face  a 
little  with  his  unshaven  beard.  But  she  had  not  minded. 
His  size,  his  fairness,  the  strong  careful  circle  of  his  arms 
made  her  love  him. 

"I'll  come  by  some  day  soon  and  bring  you  some  candy," 
he  had  promised.  Fairly  shy  until  now,  she  found  her 
tongue  at  the  prospect  of  sweets.  "Lickrish,"  she  had  said, 
firmly.  And  he  had  laughed  and  kissed  her  again  and 
promised. 

He  had  brought  the  licorice,  and  later,  other  sweets,  so 
that  she  learned  to  watch  and  wait  for  him,  and  tacitly  it 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  225 

was  understood  that  this  was  a  pleasure,  a  tie,  which  her 
father  did  not  deny  her.  But  she  knew  he  did  not  like  it 
any  better  for  that,  and  that  he  grudged  it  to  her.  Once  in 
a  while  he  had  been  violently  angry  about  it;  scenes  she 
remembered,  black  splotches  in  her  mind.  He  was  civil 
enough  to  Mart  when  they  inevitably  met,  but  behind  his 
back  denounced  him  as  an  unregenerate  sinner,  diatribes 
that  made  Judy  clench  small  fists,  drove  her  out  of  the 
room  to  cry  her  eyes  red  against  Mammy  Rachel's  com- 
forting shoulder. 

Still,  that  was  her  father's  way.  He  despised  and  ex- 
coriated all  those  who  did  not  walk  the  same  path  of  devo- 
tion as  himself,  and  at  last  Judy  came  to  find  his  indictment 
of  Mart  almost  impersonal.  Only  she  thought  that  Uncle 
Mart  must  guess  how  her  father  felt,  for  tease  and  coax 
as  she  might,  he  never  set  foot  across  the  Hyde  threshold. 
Judy  would  run  across  the  fields  to  the  Bladen  house,  stop 
for  dinner  if  her  mother  had  given  permission,  and  perched 
on  a  chair  made  high-seated  with  old  agricultural  reports, 
would  share  Mart's  meal,  and  chatter  her  heart  out  to  him 
as  she  could  do  with  no  one  else  in  her  small  world.  This 
was  a  rare  pleasure  for  both  of  them,  but  now  that  she 
had  grown  so  tall  that  the  agricultural  reports  were  no 
longer  requisitioned,  she  went  less  often,  for  John  Henry 
was  beginning  to  look  with  more  and  more  disfavor  on 
these  occasional  visits.  She  would  sometimes  slip  away 
when  he  was  not  at  home,  and  those  chances  were  few.  But 
Mart  remained  her  luminary  and  she  his  faithful  satellite. 

The  image  of  Young  Ed  Galloway  troubled  and  dis- 
turbed her.  Up  until  now  she  had  been  utterly  content 
with  childish  things,  and  beaux  were  something  to  look 
forward  to  in  the  far-away  future  when  she  would  be  as 
old  as  Virgie.  It  was  far  more  desirable  to  slip  off  late 
of  a  Sunday  afternoon  and  go  rowing  in  a  battered  old 
boat  with  Lee  Kemp,  who  was  as  much  mere  boy  as  she 
was  mere  girl,  than  to  receive  the  mature  attentions  of 
Young  Ed  with  his  trotting  horse  and  new  buggy.  His 


226  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

teasing  familiarities  with  their  undercurrent  of  hidden 
knowledge  were  hateful  to  her,  the  more  as  she  did  not 
know  how  to  parry  them,  and  John  Henry's  insistence  that 
she  should  be  amiably  receptive  to  these  advances  held  al- 
ways a  sinister  menace  of  punishment  if  she  disobeyed. 

Something  in  Lee's  isolation,  his  unhappy  childhood  which 
she  could  divine,  the  ban  he  was  under  with  all  good  people 
like  John  Henry,  made  a  bond  of  sympathy  and  confidence 
between  them.  And  there  was  his  expressed  hatred  of 
old  Billy  Galloway  at  their  first  meeting.  Judy  remembered 
that.  On  the  first  time  that  she  managed  to  meet  Lee  for 
the  coveted  "boat-ride""  she  alluded  to  it. 

"Why  don't  you  like  the  Galloways?" 

Lee  was  frank.  "Old  Billy  held  the  mortgage  on  my 
Pa's  farm  .and  he  never  let  him  have  a  chance  to  get  ahead. 
If  he  was  back  with  the  interest  a  day  old  Billy 'd  ride  up 
and  take  our  chickens,  or  maybe  a  couple  calves.  Once 
he  drove  off  our  best  cow.  She  wasn't  much,  but  she  was 
the  best  we  had." 

"I  never  heard  anything  so  mean." 

The  boy  laid  down  his  oars  and  regarded  fiercely  the 
placid  silver  river.  "I'd  like  to  grind  him  right  down 
in  the  dust,  I  would.  The  things  he  said  to  Pa — and 
right  so  Ma  could  hear  'em!  Old  Billy  Galloway  is  a 
dirty  dog,  and  I  don't  care  if  he  does  set  in  the  Amen 
corner  and  give  money  to  the  missionaries,  I'd  say  so  to 
his  face." 

"I'm  awful  sorry,"  offered  Judy,  with  intense  sym- 
pathy. There  were  tears  in  her  eyes,  and  Lee,  seeing  this, 
felt  a  strange  stricture  of  pleasure  and  oain  in  his  green 
boy's  heart. 

"It's  nothing  to  take  on  about  now,"  he  assured  her 
gruffly.  "Only — some  day  I'm  going  to  get  even." 

That  was  all  that  was  said  of  them  on  the  first  after- 
noon. But  when  Judy  spoke  again  of  the  Galloways  it 
was  Lee's  turn  to  ask  questions. 

"Are  they  friends  to  your  Pa?" 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  227 

"Yes — I  guess  so.  Pa  and  old  Mr.  Galloway  talk  to- 
gether a  lot  about  things  at  the  church — and  now — "  She 
paused  unhappily. 

"Now  what?" 

It  came  with  a  burst  of  helpless  anger.  "That  Young 
Ed  keeps  coming  to  our  house.  I  wouldn't  care  if  he'd  just 
talk  to  Pa  and  Ma,  or  eat  supper,  maybe — but — but — he's 
always  wanting  me  to  go  buggy-riding.  I  hate  him." 

"Oh,  Judy !"  cried  Lee,  betraying  himself  in  the  anguish 
of  his  cry.  "Don't  you  go  with  him.  You  won't,  will  you?" 

"I  can't  help  it."  And  here  was  anguish  to  match  her 
hearer's.  "Pa  makes  me." 

He  did  not  know  that  he  was  falling  in  love  with  her,  but 
he  did  know  that  he  could  not  bear  the  thought  of  her 
riding  with  Young  Ed. 

"How  can  he  make  you?    You're  most  grown." 

But  freedom  was  far  beyond  Judy's  vision.  She  could 
only  look  at  Lee,  unable  to  explain.  Her  eyes  plead  with 
him  to  understand  that  she  was  young  and  soft  and  with- 
out adequate  resistance,  a  dependent,  too  gentle  to  resist 
the  impact  of  an  authoritative  will.  A  little  of  this  got 
through  to  Lee.  But  he  was  not  appeased. 

"Does  Ed  Galloway  want  to  go  with  you?"  he  demanded 
with  jealous  vehemence. 

"He  makes  out  like  he  does.  I  don't  know."  She 
plucked  up  spirit.  "I  never  say  a  pleasant  word  to  him, 
and  he  just  acts  as  if  it  was  funny.  He  knows  I  don't  like 
him,  and  yet,  he  acts  like  he's  my  beau.  Only,  I  wouldn't 
let  him,  you  know,  really  be,  no  matter  what  Pa  said  or 
did." 

"No,  don't  you,  Judy.  He's  not  fit,  honest.  Galloway 
blood's  mean  blood."  He  stopped  and  flushed  with  hot 
remembering  unhappiness.  "People  say  Kemp  blood's 
mean  blood,  too,  but  it  ain't  so.  My  Pa  was  wild,  but  he 
wasn't  mean.  Don't  let  Ed  Galloway  go  with  you,  Judy." 

"I  won't,"  she  promised,  but  added:  "My  Pa's  awful 
stern  when  he  says  somebody's  got  to  do  something." 


228  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

"Your  Pa  looks  stern,"  conceded  Lee.  "I  meet  him  on 
the  road  sometimes  and  he  looks  like  he  wanted  to  drive 
right  over  me." 

"He  probably  didn't  mean  it,"  apologized  Judy,  knowing 
full  well  that  he  probably  did  mean  it.  "He  looks  stern 
at  everybody." 

"Well,  I  never  did  nothing  to  him,  and  I  don't  owe  him 
any  money,  so  he  needn't  look  at  me  thataway,"  declared 
Lee  truculently. 

"All  right,  but  don't  holler  at  me  about  it." 

They  laughed,  and  peace  was  restored.  It  was  so  quiet 
there  on  the  river,  and  they  kept  close  to  shore,  a  shore 
fringed  with  pine  and  leaning  bushes.  Beyond  their  fluted 
rim  of  shadow  the  water  was  a  lake  of  cool,  prism-tinted 
sunlight,  without  enough  current  to  break  the  sheen. 

"It's  nice  here.    I  like  it  better  here  than  anywhere." 

"Do  you,  honest?" 

"Honest  and  true.    I  always  wanted  to  go  boat-riding." 

He  stammered,  flushed,  at  putting  a  daring  thought  into 
words :  "I'm  glad — I'm  glad  it's  me — you — I  mean — I'm 
glad  I  can  take  you,  and — and — not  anybody  else." 

"It  wouldn't  be  nearly  so  nice  with  anybody  else,"  an- 
swered Judy,  simply  enough.  "I  like  you  ever  so  much." 

They  were  not  at  all  self-conscious  with  each  other,  but 
alternated  between  a  playful  give-and-take,  not  without  its 
brusque  touches,  and  a  serious  puzzled  discussion  of  the 
world  as  they  found  it.  Rarely  they  had  shy  moments, 
and  these  were  Lee's  rather  than  Judy's.  No  disturbing 
emotions  palpitated  between  them.  They  were  not  yet 
awake  and  aware.  But  Judy's  "I  like  you  ever  so  much" 
warmed  and  cheered  the  listening  boy. 

"I'm  lucky.  First  Mr.  Bladen  lets  me  work  for  him, 
and  then  I  meet  up  with  you.  I  never  had  such  a  good 
time  in  all  my  life  before  I  came  here." 

"I'm  glad  you  came.  I  wish  I  didn't  have  to  sneak  off 
to  go  boat-riding,  though.  I  had  to  tell  Mammy  Rachel,  or 
I  never  could  manage  it." 


One  Thing.  Is  Certain  229 

"There's  no  harm  in  boat-riding." 

Judy  pursed  her  mouth.  "In  our  house  everything  you 
enjoy  is  wrong,  no  matter  how  harmless  it  is." 

Lee  stared  with  pity,  but  he  had  heard  of  this  stern 
doctrine  before.  "Well,  don't  get  caught,  that's  all." 

"I  won't.  If  I  did — oh,  Lee, — I  believe  Pa'd  whip  me 
with  a  gad."  She  turned  terror-pale  at  the  imaginary  pres- 
ence of  John  Henry  in  anger. 

"Did  he  ever?"  asked  Lee  indignantly. 

"Once.  He  used  often  to  switch  me,  and  that  stung, 
but  it  wasn't — so  bad.  But  once  he  got — fearfully  mad — 
and  it  was  about  Unc'  Mart — but  don't  you  ever  tell  him. 
Unc'  Mart  brought  me  a  pink  hair  ribbon,  and  after  he'd 
gone  Pa  snatched  it  and  flung  it  into  the  stove,  and  I 
cried,  and  he  started  to  whip  me  with  a  big  stick,  and — and 
— Ma  came  in,  and  snatched  it  away  from  him,  and  put 
me  behind  her — and — and — "  she  stopped  and  covered  her 
eyes  with  her  hands,  and  went  on  in  a  low  voice — "and  I 
thought  he  was  going  to  strike  her,  too, — but  he  didn't. 
They  just  looked  at  each  other,  and — and  Ma  said,  'There's 
the  whipping  post  for  men  who  beat  children  and  women.' 
And  Pa  stomped  out.  But  he  never  hit  me  that  way  again. 
There,  I  never  told  anybody  but  you." 

Lee's  hands  shook  on  the  oars.  He  wished  they  were 
cudgels  and  he  could  beat  Judy's  father  with  them.  "Don't 
you  hate  him?"  he  asked  at  last. 

This  was  a  distance  Judy  could  not  follow.  "Why — 
no.  He's  my  father.  'Honor  thy  father  and  mother/  you 
know — " 

The  sordid  recital  had  brought  a  shadow  on  the  day. 
The  sun  had  withdrawn  behind  a  cloud,  and  the  water  was 
gray  and  forbidding.  Lee  knew  that  his  hour  was  ended, 
and  he  rowed  without  a  word  to  the  little  cove  where 
tangled  bushes  hid  the  small  sandy  crescent  of  the  landing 
place. 

Judy  jumped  out  quickly.  "Good-by,"  she  said;  "I'll  try 
to  come  again  soon." 


230  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

Lee  watched  her  go,  then  pushed  off  and  began  his  half 
mile  row  to  return  the  boat  to  its  owner.  "John  Henry 
Hyde's  as  mean  as  old  Billy  Galloway,"  he  muttered,  pulling 
at  the  oars  with  all  his  strength.  "They're  the  two  meanest 
men  in  the  world." 

He  was  still  brooding  over  this  matter  when  he  came  in 
to  supper  and  he  sat  silent  and  withdrawn  until  through 
the  meal.  It  was  his  first  dark  mood  for  a  long  time,  and 
Mart  saw  it  with  surprise  and  sympathy. 

"This  is  most  too  nice  an  evening  to  feel  grum,"  he  sug- 
gested at  last,  and  the  words  broke  through  the  boy's  trou- 
ble. He  followed  Mart  around  to  the  front  porch  where 
he  was  wont  to  smoke  his  after  supper  pipe  on  summer 
evenings. 

"I  got  something  on  my  mind,"  he  said  worriedly.  Mart 
could  not  help  a  twinkle  of  amusement,  but  he  did  not 
show  it. 

"Want  to  talk  to  me,  do  you?"  he  asked  kindly.  "Fire 
away." 

"You  remember  that  day  I  went  down  to  mend  the 
fence  and  Judy  Hyde  come  along  picking  dewberries  and 
sent  you  up  some  for  supper?" 

Mart  nodded.  At  Judy's  name  he  became  curious,  at- 
tentive. 

"She  said  she  wanted  to  go  boat-riding  and  so  I  bor- 
rowed a  boat  and  took  her  two-three  times  on  Sunday 
afternoons.  And  she — she  has  to  sneak  off  to  go.  She 
says  Mr.  Hyde  would  prob'ly  whip  her  if  he  knew  it. 
And,  Mr.  Bladen — she  told  me — "  He  went  on  and  told 
the  story  of  how  Judy's  father  had  whipped  her  with  the 
heavy  stick,  and  as  he  told  it  his  eyes  glittered  with  tears 
of  sheer  rage  and  helplessness,  and  as  Mart  listened,  the 
blood  suffused  his  face  in  rage,  and  the  two  men  were  wrapt 
in  intense  sympathy  by  their  suffocating  indignation. 

"She  said  not  to  tell,"  said  Lee,  at  last.  "But  I  thought 
you  ought  to  know.  I — I  won't  take  her  out  boat-riding 
again  if  you  think  maybe  it  would  get  her  in  trouble  at  home. 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  231 

It's  not  any  harm,  going  boat-riding,  but,  but — Mr.  Bladen, 
I  don't  care  if  they  do  call  Mr.  Hyde  a  good  man  and 
all,  and  he  a  deacon  in  the  church  and  sup'tendent  of  the 
Sunday  School, — I  think  he's  mean.  I  think  he's  mean  as 
a  skunk." 

Mart  heaved  a  deep  and  angry  sigh.  "What  did  you 
come  to  me  with  all  this  tale  for,  Lee?"  he  asked.  "What's 
the  idea?" 

"I  just  thought  somebody  ought  to  know  who  could  do 
something.  I  thought — maybe — some  time — she  might  need 
somebody  to  help  her  out,  if  Mr.  Hyde  was  mean  to  her 
again.  And  you  being  friendly  over  there,  and  all,  and 
knowing  them  so  lo^g,  and  she  calling  you  Uncle, — and 
anyway,  Mr.  Bladen,  you  can  do  anything  with  anybody 
if  you've  got  a  mind  to.  So  I  thought  you  ought  to  know. 
Yes,  and  there's  something  else.  She  told  me  that  first. 
Mr.  Hyde,  he's  trying  to  make  her  go  with  Young  Ed 
Galloway.  Makes  her  go  buggy-riding  with  him.  And  she 
don't  like  to." 

Mart  Bladen  answered  this  with  a  vile  and  satisfying 
oath.  "What's  that — Young  Ed  Galloway?  I  heard  he'd 
turned  pious  and  joined  the  church  since  Rilly  Ford  tried 
to  knife  him,  but  I  didn't  hardly  believe  it  would  last.  But 
for  him  to  come  near  Judy — and  for  John  Henry  to  connive 
at  it—" 

He  got  up  and  walked  up  and  down,  and  swore  again, 
while  Lee  watched  him  with  admiration  and  satisfaction. 
The  gross  and  obscene  words  were  sweet  to  his  ears,  ex- 
pressing his  own  feelings  wholly,  and  proving  that  Mart 
was  thoroughly  at  one  with  him.  At  last  Mart  was  able 
to  speak  coherently: 

"It  was  the  right  thing  for  you  to  tell  me,  Lee,  but  it 
must  stop  with  us,  you  understand.  All  this  is  betwixt 
you  and  me.  Neither  one  of  us  can  do  anything,  of  course, 
because  nobody  can  interfere  in  another  man's  family  mat- 
ters. Outsiders  can't  mix  into  things  like  this.  Under- 
stand?" 


232  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

"I  thought  maybe  you'd  go  over  there  and  lick  tar  out 
of  Mr.  Hyde,"  suggested  Lee,  rather  disgusted  with  the 
policy  of  caution.  "Pa  used  to  tell  how  you  licked  Jere 
Willis,  once — prettiest  fight,  Pa  used  to  say,  he  ever  had 
the  good  luck  to  see." 

"Yes,  and  look — if  I  licked  John  Henry  Hyde — who  d'you 
suppose  his  spite  would  be  took  out  on?  No,  Lee — that 
wouldn't  do  her  any  good." 

"That's  so.  He'd  treat  her  worse'n  ever.  Say,  Mr. 
Bladen,  d'you  think  I  ought  to  take  her  out  boat-riding 
again,  if  it  might  make  trouble  for  her  with  her  father?" 

This  was  a  matter  to  be  considered.  "I  don't  know's 
that  makes  any  difference,"  Mart  decided  at  last.  "I  don't 
believe,  hardly,  that  he'd  lay  hand  on  her  to  whip  her. 
Judas  Priest!  I  wisht  she'd  told  me!  Plucky  young  one! 
I  wonder.  .  .  ."  He  felt  walled,  boxed  in.  If  he  made 
any  move,  any  definite  and  open  move  for  Judy,  what  an 
odd  palatable  morsel  it  would  make  for  gossiping  tongues. 
No,  his  hands  were  tied.  Yet,  Ed  Galloway — why,  Ed  Cal- 
loway  was  muck!  Not  to  Mart  Bladen  did  conversion  and 
public  repentance  wash  away  such  sins  as  young  Ed's. 

"You  like  Judy  ?"  he  asked  Lee  abruptly. 

"Yes,  sir,  'deed  I  do,"  answered  Lee  promptly,  and  all 
was  so  clear  now  between  himself  and  Mart  that  he  could 
so  answer  with  emphasis  and  feel  no  confusion.  Mart, 
seeing  this,  was  relieved.  "They're  just  children,"  he  told 
himself.  But  he  continued  his  catechism: 

"You  two  ain't  been  sweetheartin'  any,  off  boat-riding 
so?" 

Young  Lee  went  red  up  to  his  neck  and  over  his  ears 
and  forehead,  but  he  didn't  falter.  "No,  sir.  I'm  too  poor 
to  think  about  making  up  to  any  girl,  and  she — she  don't 
think  about  such  things,  neither.  That  boat-riding  was 
just — was  just — to  pleasure  her.  She  said  she  wanted  to 
go.  And  she's  friendly — and  nice — to  me." 

"M-m-m,  yes.  Well,  son — you  keep  it  just  so.  And 
take  her  again,  if  she  can  go.  And  if  you  hear  anything 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  233 

more,  you  tell  me,  but  keep  your  tongue  still  about  it 
everywheres  else.  And  if  it  should  fall  out  that  John  Henry 
hears  of  you  taking  her  out,  and  comes  at  you  over  it,  let 
me  know,  right  away.  And  just  one  thing  more.  This  may 
not  be  anything  at  all — maybe  we're  building  a  mountain 
out  of  a  mole-hill.  So  don't  get  all  worked  up  and  go 
floozing  around,  unless  you're  pretty  sure  you're  not  mak- 
ing yourself  ridiculous, — or  letting  Judy  in  for  any  trouble. 
See  what  I  mean  ?" 

"Yes,  sir,  I  reckon  so." 

The  talk  was  over.  Lee  went  off  to  make  his  self-ap- 
pointed evening  round  of  the  barn  and  stables,  Caesar  loping 
round  him.  He  was  no  longer  sullen  or  dull  or  loutish  and 
awkward.  Good  food,  freedom  from  present  shame  and 
worry,  the  prospect  of  a  future,  responsibility  that  he  could 
carry,  the  self-respecting  amount  of  his  wages,  friendship, — 
these  had  made  him  over,  quickly,  because  youth  is  resilient 
and  responsive. 

"Doggoned  if  he's  not  getting  to  be  a  real  good-looking 
boy,"  thought  Mart.  "Holds  his  head  up  and  answers  like 
a  man.  Sensible,  too,  for  all  he's  only  a  kid.  Clean  and 
decent.  A  sight  better  than  that  smear  of  a  Young  Ed 
Galloway.  A-a-a-gh!"  He  spat  heavily  over  the  porch 
rail  to  get  the  taste  of  Ed  Galloway's  name  out  of  his 
mouth.  But  he  remained  there  in  the  summer  dusk, 
thoughtful,  a  heavy  crease  of  worry  between  his  brows. 
It  had  been  so  long  since  his  emotions  had  been  strongly 
engaged  that  he  was  bewildered  and  unhappy  by  their 
arousing.  Though  he  had  counseled  Lee  as  best  he  could, 
he  was  not  sure  that  his  counsel  was  the  best.  He  did  not 
want  to  be  disturbed  from  his  quiet  way.  He  hated  the 
unknown.  The  kinship  of  his  open  quiescent  fields  was 
strong  upon  him.  They  could  live  in  quiet,  and  in  peace, 
accepting  sun  and  rain,  plowing  time  and  harvest.  So 
would  he  live,  and  everything  beyond  that  disturbed  him. 
And  yet,  and  yet,  he  must  not  fail  Judy.  If  Judy  was  in 
danger  of  being  pushed  into  the  hands  of  Young  Ed  Callo- 


234  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

way.  .  .  .  Mart  Bladen  rose  and  stretched  his  strong  arms 
as  one  who  would  do  battle. 

"Ephum/'  he  called.  "Ephum.  You  go  saddle  Chlce 
and  tell  Lee  to  saddle  up  a  horse  for  himself  and  we  two'll 
go  ride  down  the  river-road.  I  got  a  prejudice  against 
sitting  still  on  a  night  like  this." 

It  was  the  first  time  he  had  ever  asked  the  boy  to  ride 
with  him,  and  it  marked  the  beginning  of  a  new  and  closer 
companionship,  a  real  affection  between  them. 


CHAPTER  FIVE 

JOHN  HENRY  HYDE  was  finding  life  intolerable — it 
pressed  upon  him  as  a  crown  of  thorns.  He  had  reached 
the  time  when  a  man  must  look  back  to  satisfactions,  and 
forward  to  larger  ones,  if  he  is  not  to  find  the  path  toward 
age  crushing  in  its  narrowness  and  uncertain  end.  His 
will  fretted  and  rebelled  against  passing  on  into  this  uncer- 
tainty without  having  been  paramount.  He  saw  no  com- 
pensations. What  to  him,  in  his  corroding  thoughts,  were 
his  fertile,  docile  farm  lands,  his  productive  cattle!  What 
to  him  was  his  exalted  position  in  the  church !  What  to 
him  were  the  two  children  of  his  likeness,  the  ordered  rule 
of  his  house,  when  against  these  he  felt  the  constant  humili- 
ating sting  of  Louellen's  long-time  rebellion,  outwardly 
smothered,  and  concealed,  but  flaring  now  and  then  into 
its  old  strength,  always  to  his  confusion.  And  the  fresh 
untouched  fairness  of  Judy — that  was  another  cankering 
sore.  He  hated  both  these  women,  hated  and  feared  his 
hatred,  being  assured  that  it  was  deadly  sin  and  would 
drag  his  soul  to  hell.  If  he  went  to  hell,  he  gloomily 
assured  himself,  it  would  be  the  fault  of  Louellen,  pri- 
marily, and  Judy,  secondarily.  He  longed  to  destroy  them 
both,  to  destroy  and  hurt  Louellen  as  he  had  destroyed  her 
in  those  first  glorious  days  of  his  marriage,  when  he  had 
mastered  her  utterly,  mind  and  body  and  spirit.  Longed 
to  destroy  Judy,  because  she  was  what  she  was. 

He  told  himself  that  he  was  sick  with  longing  for  per- 
fect righteousness, — that  because  he  had  been  denied  the 
right  of  headship  in  his  house,  because  he  had  not  been 
able  to  bring  it  about  that  he  should  rule  them  all,  as  was 
right,  he  had  been  guilty  of  sin.  His  diseased  and  ingrown 
egoism  assured  him  that  all  he  needed  for  perfect  happiness, 
for  perfect,  godly  happiness,  was  dominance,  the  rightful 

235 


236  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

dominance  that  should  be  his  over  all  the  lesser  creatures 
of  his  household.  This  dominance,  achieved,  would  blot 
out  his  sin  of  weakness,  establish  him  again.  It  was  so 
he  justified  himself  in  his  thoughts. 

All  unconsciously  this  crisis  had  been  provoked,  induced, 
by  Judy's  adolescence,  her  bloom  and  beauty.  While  she 
was  a  child  he  had  overlooked  her,  pushed  her  away  from 
him  mentally  and  physically,  save  when  he  could  gratify 
himself  by  some  act  of  petty  tyranny,  some  unmerited 
harsh  punishment  for  her.  These  punishments,  these  un- 
fairnesses had  served  as  outlets  for  his  venom.  But  now 
she  was  too  big  to  whip,  and  he  could  not  drive  her  into 
spasms  of  terror  as  he  had  when  she  was  smaller.  She, 
like  her  mother,  had  somehow  escaped  him.  It  was  torture 
to  him,  her  escape;  torture  to  see  her  fairness,  her  light 
loveliness  against  Virgie's  dark  coloring  that  made  the 
older  girl  so  satisfying  a  replica  of  himself  in  youth,  espe- 
cially so  since  in  Virgie  there  was  a  greater  regularity  of 
feature,  a  softer  delicacy  of  contour  than  had  ever  been 
remotely  suggested  in  his  own  person.  Yet  she  was  unmis- 
takably Hyde.  Bud  also,  with  just  enough  of  Louellen 
in  him  to  make  him  normal,  and  with  his  mother's  eyes. 
But  Judy — lovely,  shining,  laughing — John  Henry  could  not 
look  at  her  without  finding  her  an  offense  to  his  eyes  and 
to  his  soul. 

Louellen  Hyde  was  aware  of  the  deepening  and  clouding 
of  her  husband's  spirit,  but  she  did  not  know  its  cause.  His 
increased  fervency  at  family  prayers,  his  augmented  an- 
tipathy to  Judy,  his  insistence  on  the  smallest  religious 
duties,  his  intensified  unctuousness  at  church  and  Sunday 
School,  these  Louellen  saw,  but  did  not  correlate.  To  her 
he  was  merely  "harder  to  deal  with."  At  times  she  added 
to  this  that  he  "was  getting  downright  queer."  But  after 
all,  he  had  always  been  hard  to  deal  with,  he  had  always 
been  queer.  Her  loathing  for  him  had  hardened  into  a 
habit  of  regarding  him  as  non-existent.  In  her  assured 
rescue  of  body  from  him,  now  confirmed  by  many  years, 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  237 

she  had  ceased  to  be  so  fearful  of  him,  dearly  enough  though 
she  had  bought  that  rescue.  First  by  such  quarrels  as  she 
had  never  even  imagined  that  she  could  take  part  in,  by 
actual  physical  resistance,  violent  and  prolonged  and  savage, 
and  finally  by  the  turning  over  to  him  without  question  all 
her  inheritance  from  her  mother,  buying  herself  with  his 
avarice,  yielding  to  his  greed  in  one  direction  where  she 
would  not  satisfy  it  in  another. 

This  being  accomplished,  she  had  turned  to  the  plain 
material  duties  of  everyday  life,  the  cooking,  the  cleaning, 
the  dairy,  the  sewing,  the  care  of  her  children.  The  rest 
of  her  was  dead,  dead  from  her  battle  with  him,  and  with 
herself,  utterly  dead,  in  feeling,  in  affection,  for  she  had 
battled  with  herself  as  well  as  with  John  Henry,  and  she 
had  killed  her  love  for  Mart  in  reprehension  of  her  sin 
with  him,  had  killed  all  memory  and  thought  of  him,  had 
made  him  nothing  in  her  life,  in  her  mind.  His  light  no 
longer  beckoned  and  supported  her.  She  had  learned  to 
contain  herself,  to  stand  alone.  She  averted  her  eyes  from 
his  light,  from  him.  She  killed  the  youth  in  her,  the 
warmth,  the  weakness.  She  was  glad  when  these  things 
were  dead. 

Only  for  her  children  was  she  a  little  bit  alive,  and  for 
Judy  most  of  all.  But  her  aliveness  to  Judy  did  not  make 
her  partial.  Even-handed,  Louellen  dealt  with  exact  jus- 
tice amongst  her  three.  If  Judy  had  a  new  dress  or  rib- 
bons, so  did  Virgie,  and  Bud  was  not  neglected.  A  treat, 
or  indulgence  from  her — and  they  were  rare  enough — was  a 
triple  one.  Duties  and  chores  were  divided  rightly.  So 
far  as  she  could  she  would  not  suffer  John  Henry  to  deal 
with  them  otherwise  than  she  did  herself,  and  every  slight, 
every  neglect,  every  unkindness  to  Judy  from  him  she 
warded  off  or  checked  when  it  was  possible.  She  could 
not  always  succeed,  but  now  and  then,  when  his  harshness 
was  too  flagrant,  she  made  an  issue  of  it  and  rose  to  defend 
her  youngest  with  a  cold  and  determined  passion  that  al- 
ways drove  John  Henry  into  retreat.  Yet  when  she  did 


238  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

this  there  was  in  her  eyes  that  which  said  she  was  not 
really  sorry  John  Henry  felt  this  hatred  of  Judy.  Only  she 
would  not  suffer  it  to  blight  the  child. 

But  she  was  not  soft  with  Judy,  nor  would  she  allow  her 
to  make  capital  out  of  her  protection.  In  the  matter  of  Ed 
Galloway,  Louellen  presently  took  her  to  task  for  break- 
ing the  current  law  of  hospitality,  thus  upholding  John 
Henry's  will. 

"You  mustn't  be  rude  to  people  who  want  to  do  some- 
thing nice  for  you.  He's  come  all  this  way  to  take  you  for 
a  buggy-ride.  You  ought  to  be  pleased." 

Judy  saw  that  her  mother  did  not  understand,  and  like 
many  young  things  called  before  the  bar  of  elder  justice, 
could  not  explain. 

"I  don't  like  Ed  Galloway,"  was  all  she  could  offer. 

"You  mustn't  take  likes  and  dislikes  and  be  notional 
as  if  you  were  a  baby.  You're  most  grown  up  and  you 
should  act  with  reason." 

"Oh,  Mother, — I  don't  want  to  be  grown  up  if  I've  got 
to  go  buggy-riding  with  people  I  hate." 

"Why  don't  you  like  Ed  Galloway?" 

"He  teases  me.    And  he  looks  at  me — funny." 

Louellen  had  not  heard  the  gossip  of  the  shanty-boat  girl 
and  the  subsequent  row.  That  was  gossip  which  so  far  had 
circulated  only  amongst  the  men.  Young  Ed  was  to  her 
a  prosperous  youth,  not  prepossessing,  especially,  but  cer- 
tainly not  repulsive.  She  knew  of  old  the  tale  of  Judy's 
quick  prejudiced  likes  and  dislikes. 

"You'll  have  to  get  over  talking  that  way  about  people 
and  feeling  that  way.  I  think  myself  you're  a  little  too 
young  to  receive  attention  from  young  men,  but  I  don't  see 
as  an  occasional  buggy-ride  matters — " 

Contrary  to  her  custom  Judy  burst  into  open  defiance: 
"I  won't  have  Ed  Galloway  for  a  beau.  I  won't — I  won't. 
Not  if  Pa  gets  mad  and  whips  me  to  death  I  won't.  I  hate 
him.  He's  got  toad's  eyes.  He's  got  toad's  hands  all  cold 
and  wet."  Her  helplessness,  her  resentment,  the  failure 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  239 

of  her  mother  to  comprehend,  had  worked  her  to  the  pitch 
of  frenzied  tears. 

Louellen  was  aghast  at  the  tornado.  She  took  Judy  in 
her  arms,  not  untenderly,  and  rocked  her  as  if  she  were  still 
a  child.  "My  goodness,  don't  take  on  so.  You  don't  need 
to  have  Ed  Galloway  or  anybody  else  you  don't  want  for  a 
beau.  Your  Pa  wants  you  to  act  nice  to  him,  like  he  wants 
you  to  act  nice  to  everybody  that  comes  round,  but  he  don't 
mean  anything  else.  There — don't  cry."  She  pushed  back 
the  heavy  fair  hair  and  kissed  the  hot  tormented  forehead. 
Judy  was  babyish,  so,  her  hair  pushed  back,  her  body  soft, 
clinging,  palpitating  with  sorrow.  "You'll  make  yourself 
sick  crying  like  this." 

Judy  had  read  John  Henry's  purpose  more  truly  than 
Louellen.  "Pa'll  make  me  go  with  him,"  she  persisted. 

"Now,  Judy — now." 

"He  will — I  know  it.  Pa  likes  to  make  me  do  it  because 
he  knows  I  hate  Ed  Galloway." 

"You  mustn't  say  things  like  that.  It's  not  true.  You 
know  how  your  Pa  feels  about  all  the  church  people,  and 
how  he  wants  us  all  to  be  specially  nice  to  them." 

"But  it  is  true.  It's  not  the  church  people.  It's  me — 
and  Ed  Galloway.  Pa's  always  had  a  spite  against  me. 
Oh,  Mother,  why  has  he?  Why?  I  never  do  anything 
worse  than  Virgie  and  Bud  do,  but  Pa — " 

Louellen  rose  suddenly,  spilling  Judy  out  of  her  arms 
in  a  convulsed  resurrection  of  feeling.  The  stiff  mask  she 
had  forced  over  her  face  broke  and  vanished.  She  pressed 
her  hands  against  her  heart. 

"No,  Judy,  no,"  she  called  out  in  a  strange  high  voice. 
"Don't  talk  like  that.  Don't  say  such  things." 

She  frightened  and  quieted  Judy,  misinterpreting.  "Oh, 
Ma,  I  didn't  mean  it.  I  didn't.  I'm  sorry—  '  but  her 
mother  had  gone,  leaving  her  twice  confounded.  She  was 
not  any  further  on  the  way  to  be  rid  of  Ed  Galloway's 
obnoxious  attentions  and  she  had  somehow  unexplainably 
hurt  and  agitated  her  quiet  Mother.  She  ground  her  teeth 


240  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

against  the  unfairness,  the  incomprehensibility  of  the  world. 

"I  hate  being  grown  up,"  she  cried  to  the  silence  of  the 
room,  "I  hate  it  as  much  as  I  hate  Pa." 

It  was  the  first  time  she  had  ever  admitted  that  she 
hated  John  Henry,  and  it  frightened  her  that  she  had  ad- 
mitted it.  She  had  repudiated  hatred  for  him  when  Lee 
had  suggested  it.  But  now  she  found  it  was  there,  that  it 
had  always  been  there.  She  hated  her  father.  She  was  in- 
dubitably a  wicked  girl  and  on  her  way  to  lose  her  soul. 
Well, — lose  it  or  not,  she  would  stand  by  the  truth.  She 
did  hate  her  father,  and  she  knew  that  he  hated  her.  Why, 
she  could  not  fathom.  She  had  always  been  afraid  of  him, 
but  now  she  feared  him  more,  for  hate  is  a  cold  and  terri- 
fying guest  for  the  warm  heart  of  youth.  "I  don't  under- 
stand. I  don't  understand.  And  I'm  so  unhappy." 

To  Louellen  Judy's  questions  were  so  many  knife  thrusts. 
At  first  she  could  not  bear  them.  After  a  little  the  long 
years  of  repression  and  deadness  came  to  her  aid,  dulled 
the  pain  of  the  questions,  forced  her  to  consider  coolly: 
"What  is  expedient?  What  is  wise?" 

The  answer  was  obvious.  She  must  speak  to  John  Henry, 
tell  him  that  he  must  not  force  Ed  Galloway  on  Judy,  that 
she  was  too  young,  she  had  not  yet  reached  the  time  when 
any  young  man  coming  courting  is  welcome.  It  was  not 
a  pleasant  errand,  but  Louellen  saw  no  difficulties  beyond 
the  usual  ones  of  John  Henry's  obstinacy  and  self-will. 
She  had  contended  with  him  before,  and  she  could  again, 
though  she  always  avoided  it  if  possible.  But  for  expedi- 
ency alone,  this  thing  must  be  done. 

In  the  Hyde  home  after  supper  there  was  an  hour  when 
the  master  of  the  house  sat  alone  in  a  bare  small  room  off 
the  dining  room,  that  had  been  Aunt  Lena's  bedroom,  but 
after  her  death  was  made  by  John  Henry  into  a  sort  of 
office,  for  here  was  his  locked  desk,  his  farm  accounts,  his 
bank  books  and  private  papers,  as  well  as  small  litter  of 
farm  journals,  a  bottle  or  two  of  homemade  liniment  and 
salve  for  cattle,  folded  carriage  robes,  an  extra  whip,  boxes 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  241 

of  cantaloupe  and  melon  seed  saved  and  dried  against  next 
year's  planting,  and  the  like.  Pictures  of  Roscoe  Conkling 
and  Grover  Cleveland  hung  on  the  wall,  faint  tribute  of  an 
exiled  son  to  heroes  of  his  native  state.  It  was  a  room 
ceiled  and  walled  in  narrow  pine  planking,  oiled  to  a  pleas- 
ant ruddy  brown,  but  the  air  was  always  close  and  stuffy, 
so  that  there  was  an  oppressiveness  about  the  place  that 
suited  John  Henry.  He  liked  to  be  in  there  alone,  turning 
over  the  records  for  Sabbath  School  attendance,  the  reports 
of  teachers,  making  out  orders  for  leaflets,  answering  occa- 
sional letters  from  other  Sunday  School  superintendents, 
secure  in  his  place  in  the  church  and  the  community.  He 
did  not  like  to  be  disturbed,  and  so  he  frowned  when  Lou- 
ellen  came  in,  and  the  frown  was  more  severe  because  of 
what,  in  these  last  few  months,  he  had  been  thinking  of  her, 
but  about  which  he  had  held  his  tongue. 

"Well?"  he  cut  at  her  sharply. 

Louellen  did  not  feint  or  go  at  him  roundabout.  "Are 
you  planning  that  Young  Ed  Galloway  shall  go  with  Judy  ?" 
she  asked. 

"What  if  I  am?" 

"It  won't  do,  John  Henry.  She  despises  him,  he's  some- 
how got  her  dead  set  against  him,  and  she's  too  much  of  a 
child  to  see  how  foolish  it  all  is,  yet.  She's  pretty  young 
to  have  anybody  coming  to  see  her  and  taking  her  round, 
anyway,  and  she's  got  it  into  her  head  that  you  want  to 
make  her  go  with  Ed." 

"It's  not  for  your  interference." 

"I'm  not  interfering.  I  only  want  you  to  see  how  mat- 
ters stand.  You're  going  at  it  all  the  wrong  way  by  com- 
pelling Judy — very  likely  she'd  be  flattered  and  tickled  to 
have  a  beau  if  you  hadn't  made  her  think  she  was  being 
forced  into  it.  She'll  just  act  so  offish  to  Ed  that  he'll  shy 
away  of  his  own  accord." 

The  black  vein  of  anger  swelled  in  John  Henry's  fore- 
head. Under  his  pent  brows  his  eyes  gleamed  strange  and 
ugly.  "She'll  do  nothing  of  the  kind.  Young  Ed's  come 


242  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

to  me  seeking  help  and  counsel  in  his  heavenward  way. 
He's  seen  the  light,  he  wants  to  follow  Jesus.  If  a  young 
man  who's  not  afraid  to  confess  his  sins,  and  walk  in  the 
true  path,  finds  himself  inclined  toward  Judy — she's  very 
lucky,  considering  everything."  He  flung  the  last  word  at 
her  slurringly. 

She  did  not  wince  or  draw  back.  Rather  she  studied 
him.  It  was  so,  what  she  had  faintly  felt,  John  Henry 
was  harder  to  deal  with,  he  was  more  queer.  He  was 
always  at  his  worst  when  he  got  going  with  his  religious 
twang,  but  here  was  something  more — something  fanatical, 
excessive,  something  before  which  she  had  a  premonition  of 
helplessness. 

She  tried  to  be  reasonable,  feeling  all  the  while  that 
reasonableness  to  John  Henry  was  sheer  waste.  "But  you 
can't  make  a  girl  like  a  young  fellow  when  she  doesn't." 

"It  doesn't  matter  to  me  whether  she  likes  him  or  not. 
All  I  want  is—" 

"What  do  you  want  ?" 

"To  get  rid  of  her!" 

There  was  such  spleen  in  the  words  that  Louellen  turned 
to  silence  as  the  best  answer.  It  seemed  worse  than  useless 
to  say  anything  more,  it  would  only  provoke  and  drive  him 
further. 

"And  you're  not  to  meddle,  Louellen — hear  me  ?  I  won't 
have  it.  You've  always  set  yourself  against  me,  interfered 
and  connived.  But  this  time  I  won't  have  it.  That  girl's 
got  to  be  disciplined — disciplined.  She'll  do  as  I  say, — 
she's  possessed  of  a  fro  ward  and  contentious  spirit,  and  it's 
got  to  be  broke." 

"Judy  was  right — he's  making  her  do  this  specially  be- 
cause he  knows  she  hates  it  so,"  flashed  through  Louellen's 
mind,  watching  him  darken  with  brooding  menace.  She  was 
beating  against  stone  walls.  Heretofore,  despite  John 
Henry's  violence  and  bluster,  she  could  drive  him  back,  but 
now — no. 

But  it  might  be  only  a  fit  of  temper.    This  was  a  quieting 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  243 

thought,  and  with  it  came  her  decision  to  let  the  matter 
rest,  for  if  she  went  on  he  would  only  be  further  inflamed, 
perhaps  do  something  unpremeditatedly  cruel  to  Judy.  She 
left  him  without  another  word.  There  was  nothing  to  do 
but  wait  and  see  .  .  .  wait  and  see.  .  .  .  She  shook  her 
head  in  a  sort  of  dumb  negation.  She  too,  like  Mart,  saw 
troubling  vistas.  Like  him,  she  was  reluctant  to  tear  up 
dead  tissue  and  find  live  nerves  beneath.  She  did  not  want, 
ever  again,  to  feel  emotion  that  she  could  not  put  aside. 
She  was  used  to  the  cold  and  arid  conflict  of  wills  in  small 
matters  between  herself  and  John  Henry,  but  this  was 
something  which  presaged  more,  perhaps  another  hideous 
long-drawn  melee  like  those  of  their  younger  days.  She 
did  not  feel  the  force,  the  will,  to  undertake  it.  If  there 
was  only  some  one  to  help  her  through,  some  one  to  steady 
and  strengthen  her.  Annie  and  Hance?  No — they  were 
too  far  away.  Her  searching  thoughts  wheeled  slowly, 
painfully  round  her  known  and  knowing  circle. 

She  tried  to  reassure  herself.  Possibly  John  Henry 
would  recover  from  his  obstinacy,  and  modify  his  course. 
He  had  done  so  before.  But  this  time  .  .  .  she  could  not 
be  sure.  Strange,  to  have  the  ground,  so  long  solid  beneath 
her  feet,  suddenly  shake  into  an  open  crevasse.  Ah — had 
it  been  insecure  all  the  time  ?  She  knew  it  had,  she  knew  it 
had.  Yet  now  the  peril  had  befallen,  she  was  conscious  of 
how  much  she  had  dreaded  it,  how  she  had  willed  that  it 
should  not  befall.  Security  had  been  cut  away  from  her 
by  the  sharpness  of  John  Henry's  malignity. 

She  could  hear  Virgie  and  Judy  in  the  sitting  room,  at 
the  organ.  Virgie  was  playing  last  Sunday's  hymns  with 
the  dragging  mechanical  emphasis  with  which  they  were 
sung  by  the  congregation.  Judy  began  to  sing,  softly,  a 
little  thread  of  sweetness  turning  the  monotonous  chords 
of  the  player  to  harmony.  Bud's  voice  joined  in  presently, 
humming  an  incorrect  bass,  careless  and  rough,  but  all  shot 
through  with  youth,  youth,  crystalline,  closed  to  all  but 
itself.  Louellen,  listening,  looked  back  at  her  own  youth 


244  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

as  to  a  green  hill,  far  away,  for  it  was  of  that  they  sang. 
And  at  last  she  could  not  bear  it. 

"Judy,"  she  called,  "come  here,  I  want  you." 

When  Judy  came  she  said:  "We'll  go  along  out  and 
shut  up  the  little  chickens."  Together  they  went  out  into 
the  night,  a  night  of  stars,  softly  dark  yet  softly  luminous, 
so  that  it  was  not  hard  to  see  their  way,  and  the  trees  and 
shrubs  were  clear  dark  shadows,  alive  and  friendly  in  the 
night  air. 

"Walk  in  the  path,  it's  dewy,"  cautioned  Louellen,  and 
drew  Judy  nearer  to  her  to  keep  her  from  the  touch  of  the 
grass  all  silver-fringed  with  the  night's  distillation.  Judy 
caught  her  mother's  hand,  and  they  made  their  way  down 
toward  the  huddle  of  chicken  coops,  with  sharp  gables  for 
all  the  world  like  miniature  houses,  that  stretched  beside 
the  wagon  sheds. 

"I  spoke  to  your  Pa,  Judy,  about  Mr.  Galloway,"  she  said 
at  last,  "but  I  didn't  get  much  satisfaction.  For  some  rea- 
son or  other  he's  taken  a  fancy  to  him,  and — well,  I  don't 
want  you  to  deceive  your  Pa  exactly,  but  if  you  could  not 
make  it  quite  so  plain  how  much  you  don't  like  the  young 
man,  it'd  be  better  all  round.  Likely  if  you  do  your  Pa'll 
kind  of  forget  about  it  after  a  while,  and  it'll  all  blow  over. 
And  you'll  likely  have  other  young  men  coming  round.  It's 
easy  to  get  rid  of  one  when  there's  several." 

It  sounded  possible,  thus  artfully  placed  before  her,  and 
Judy  naturally  was  a  docile  child.  Being  feminine,  living 
under  the  shadow  of  arbitrary  masculine  authority,  she 
was  used  to  various  ways  of  evading  it  while  seeming  to 
acquiesce.  And  if  other,  nicer  young  men  came  round. 
.  .  .  Still  ...  Ed  Galloway  .  .  . 

"Mother,  I  just  hate  Ed  Galloway.  I  don't  want  to  pre- 
tend to  be  nice  to  him.  Not  even  for  a  little  while." 

"I  know  you  don't  want  to,  Judy,  but  Mother  thinks  it's 
best.  And  I'll  keep  a  close  watch  on  you,  and  be  right 
beside  you.  It  can't  do  any  harm  to  try  it." 

Judy  sighed  with  impatience.    On  a  night  like  this,  with 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  245 

the  whip-poor-wills  calling,  and  the  scent  of  flowers  blow- 
ing from  the  garden,  the  image  of  Ed  Galloway  must  ob- 
trude itself,  and  she  to  be  nicer  to  him !  This  was  a  night 
for  dreams,  for  beauty,  for  all  far-away  unattainable  lovely 
things. 

"I  don't  want  to."     But  she  was  yielding. 
"I  know  you  don't.     But  you'll  do  it,  anyway." 
"Yes'm.     I  don't  have  to  be  very  nice,  do  I?" 
"No,  just  polite — like  you'd  be  to  anybody." 
Louellen  was  relieved.     She  felt  thaf  the  situation  was 
robbed  of   its  tensity.     John   Henry,   without   opposition, 
would  find  his  bluster  nullified,  exploded.    Judy's  deception 
would  be  harmless  enough.    There  would  be  no  need  any- 
where for  drama  and  scenes,  no  raking  up  of  perished 
wrongs  and   fancied  rights.     They  could  all  keep  on   in 
their  same  even  dull  groove,  and  that  was  what  Louellen 
desired  more  than  anything. 

"I  think  I'll  sit  here  on  the  side  porch  awhile,"  said 
Judy  listlessly,  as  they  returned  to  the  house.  "It's  so  nice 
out  this  evening." 

"All  right — a  little  while — but  remember  it's  real  damp." 
She  sat  still,  perched  on  the  porch  rail  sidewise,  looking 
at  the  stars,  subdued,  restless,  desolate  of  heart,  discovering 
what  a  mixed  and  miserable  thing  life  is.     She  did  not 
hear  the  sound  of  steps,  but  presently  some  one  whispered 
her  name  through  the  night,  cautiously,  not  to  alarm  her. 
"Judy — Judy!     It's  me — Lee  Kemp." 
He  stood  in  the  darkness  looking  at  her  anxiously.    Even 
in  the  night  she  could  see  his  eyes  bent  on  her  with  anxi- 
ety, solicitude  for  her.    "I  couldn't  stay  in  the  house,  and  I 
come  on  over  here  to  see  you.    I  was  thinking  about  you," 
he  went  on,  drawing  nearer. 

"I'm  all  right,"  she  whispered  back,  carefully.  "I'm  glad 
you  come." 

He  drew  nearer,  cautiously,  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  porch 
below  her,  at  one  side,  well  out  of  the  sharp  segment  of 
lamp-light  that  came  from  the  open  door.  His  silent  com- 


246  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

panionship  was  soothing  to  her  restlessness,  comforting  to 
her  distress. 

After  a  while  he  whispered  again:  "Come  boat-riding 
Sunday?" 

"I  will  if  I  can." 

"If  we'd  go  up  the  creek  a  ways  there's  a  place  with  a 
lot  of  dandy  pond  lilies.  I  found  it  the  other  day.  We  can 
get  some." 

The  magic  of  silence  in  companionship  held  them  again. 

"It's  such  a  pretty  night,"  she  whispered  at  last. 

"Oh,  yes."  Then,  after  a  little,  with  pride :  "Mr.  Bladen 
lets  me  go  riding  with  him  most  every  night.  To-night  Doc 
Tithelow  and  a  coupla  others're  over  there  playing  cards." 

"I  wish  I  could  ride." 

"Oh,  shucks — no  girls  rides  round  here  except  that  Kros- 
sey  girl  from  Two  Johns,  and  folks  think  she's  touched 
in  the  head." 

"I  don't  care,  I'd  like  to." 

"Well,  it's  fine.  Mr.  Bladen  lets  me  take  one  of  his 
best  horses,  one  he  rides  himself  sometimes." 

"Unc'  Mart's  good."  She  hugged  to  herself  the  thought 
of  Unc'  Mart,  gracious  and  generous  to  all  the  world,  but 
with  a  special  tenderness  for  her,  Judy.  She  wasn't  alone 
in  the  world.  Unc'  Mart  was  always  fond  of  her.  And 
now  Lee.  .  .  .  She  was  glad  Lee  had  come,  more  than 
glad.  In  the  dark  he  looked  as  tall  and  broad  as  a  man 
grown,  and  his  hair  was  a  thick  cap  of  darkness,  with  his 
dark  eyes  beneath,  catching  points  of  light. 

"Your  honey  suck'  must  be  in  bloom — I  keep  smelling 
something  sweet." 

"Yes,  it's  down  on  the  arbor." 

After  a  little  while  he  got  up,  noiselessly.  "I  better  go. 
Your  folks  wouldn't  like  it  to  have  me  hanging  round  here." 

"Well,  I  like  it,"  she  assured  him. 

He  dropped  his  hand  to  the  porch  railing  and  inad- 
vertently it  fell  on  hers,  and  for  a  moment  their  two  hands 
lay  cupped  together,  warm,  tingling,  shy.  "Good  night," 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  247 

he  whispered.     "Don't  forget  about  Sunday."     And  was 
gone  in  the  darkness. 

In  the  darkness  Judy  raised  the  hand  he  had  touched  and 
put  it  against  her  cheek.  And  almost  on  the  instant  her 
mother's  voice,  unaware,  summoned  her  within. 


CHAPTER  SIX 

"You'RE  a  little  spitfire,  you  know,"  said  Young  Ed  Cal- 
loway.  "I  don't  know  where  you  get  so  much  darned 
freshness.  But  it  suits  me  pretty  well." 

It  was  a  Sunday  afternoon,  late  midsummer,  burning  with 
heat.  Judy,  in  her  white  organdie,  sat  wearily  in  the  shade 
of  the  twin  maples  in  front  of  the  house,  where  they  had 
dragged  chairs  hoping  to  find  some  scrap  of  air  or  coolness 
there. 

She  was  wishing  with  all  her  heart  that  Young  Ed 
would  go,  and  let  her  run  away  to  the  river  and  to  Lee.  But 
there  he  sat,  stuffy  from  eating  too  much  of  the  excellent 
dinner  Mammy  Rachel  had  reluctantly  put  before  him,  red 
from  the  heat,  sweat  standing  on  his  forehead,  his  hair  shin- 
ing and  oily,  altogether  a  distasteful  thing  to  look  at.  He 
came  almost  every  Sunday  afternoon  now,  and  Judy,  keep- 
ing her  word  to  her  mother,  treated  him  with  toleration 
which  he  construed  for  interest. 

Her  forced  kindness  had  averted  the  conflict  with  John 
Henry,  though  perhaps  it  had  disappointed  him  a  little  too. 
He  wanted  to  make  her  obey  him,  he  wanted  the  pleasure 
of  coercing  her,  and  seeing  her  bend  and  perhaps  break 
under  the  weight  of  his  compulsion.  Her  seeming  acqui- 
escence left  him  no  chance  for  this,  but  he  watched  her 
hatefully  to  detect  the  least  sign  of  dismay  or  intolerance. 

But  Judy  was  learning  guile.  She  went  buggy-riding 
with  Young  Ed,  she  talked  with  him  when  he  came,  she 
accepted  his  attentions  at  the  church  festival  where  he 
bought  ice-cream  for  her  and  sat  beside  her  while  she  ate 
it,  and  then  assuming  that  his  expenditure  entitled  him  to 
some  privilege,  remained  at  her  elbow  for  the  rest  of  the 
evening,  completely  spoiling  it  for  her.  She  slipped  away 
from  him  for  an  hour  on  the  pretext  of  helping  to  wash 

248 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  249, 

ice-cream  saucers  with  the  elder  women  of  the  church,  pre- 
ferring soapsuds  to  her  swain. 

But  she  did  not  find  it  quite  so  hard  to  endure  him  for 
another  reason  than  doing  as  her  mother  wished.  She  had 
a  secret  refuge  in  her  friendship  for  Lee  Kemp.  Young 
Ed's  distasteful  jocularities  could  be  passed  over,  almost 
forgotten,  if  she  could  slip  away,  now  and  then,  and  meet 
the  tall  dark  boy  and  talk  with  him  in  desultory  calm  com- 
panionship, assuaging  his  loneliness  with  her  own.  To  be 
sure  the  hours  with  Young  Ed  still  irked  her,  and  made 
her  wonder  consumedly  what  pleasure  there  was  in  having 
a  beau  who  was  just  that, — a  beau,  and  nothing  more,  not 
a  friend,  not  a  playfellow,  uncongenial,  unsympathetic  at 
every  point.  His  teasing  seemed  to  her  always  the  last 
word  in  flatness. 

"I  don't  think  I'm  a  spitfire,"  she  answered  gravely  to 
his  accusation.  It  seemed  to  be  necessary  to  answer  some- 
thing. "I've  got  a  better  temper  than  you  have." 

"There — what  did  I  say.  You're  a  regular  spitfire,  tell- 
ing me  I've  got  a  temper." 

"You  have.  You've  got  a  bad  temper.  I've  seen  you 
whip  your  horses  too  much  not  to  know  that." 

"My  grandfather  says, 

'A  woman,  a  horse  and  a  walnut  tree — 
The  more  you  flog  'em,  the  better  they  be,'" 

he  misquoted  lazily. 

"It's  a  silly  thing  to  say.  How  could  you  beat  a  walnut 
tree?" 

"You  know  a  lot  about  what's  silly  and  what's  not,  don't 


you 


'I  know  when  people  are  silly."  Oh,  why  did  she  have 
to  sit  there  and  talk  this  absolute  drivel  when  down 
at  the  river.  .  .  .  She  tried  to  still  the  devil  of  impatience 
in  her  breast.  Why  did  every  one  always  go  off  and  leave 
them  alone  together?  It  was  all  right  for  Virgie  and  Mr. 
Todd,  they  liked  it.  But  she  hated  it. 


250  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

"I'm  not  going  to  fuss  with  you,  though  you  look  mighty 
pretty  when  you're  mad.  I  was  going  to  tell  you  about 
the  tournament." 

"Is  there  going  to  be  another  tournament?  When?" 
A  tournament  was  something  she  did  not  need  to  pretend 
interest  in. 

"Oh,  long  in  the  fall  when  it  gets  cool.  I  thought  maybe 
I'd  ride,  if  you  was  going  to  be  there." 

"Pa  wouldn't  let  Virgie  and  me  go  to  the  last  tournament 
because  it  was  held  by  the  Catholics — but  lots  of  other  peo- 
ple went — other  church  people,  I  mean." 

"I  reckon  your  Pa'd  let  you  go  if  I  asked  him,  wouldn't 
he?" 

"Maybe  he  would,"  she  said,  knowing  full  well  that  he 
would. 

"If  I  should  win  the  prize  maybe  you'd  enjoy  being 
crowned  the  Queen,  huh?  Put  some  of  the  older  girls' 
noses  out  of  joint  to  have  a  pretty  little  thing  like  you  come 
along  and  carry  off  the  honors.  It'd  all  be  written  up  in 
the  county  paper,  too." 

"Better  wait  till  you  get  the  prize  before  you  talk  about 
that,"  offered  Judy,  ironically. 

"I  can't  make  you  out.  You  never  give  a  fellow  any 
encouragement.  Maybe  that's  why  I'm  so  crazy  about  you." 
He  recognized  the  eternal  truth  that  the  man  male  prefers 
to  be  the  pursuer,  not  the  pursued. 

"If  you  ride,  what  name  would  you  take?"  asked  Judy, 
evading  the  vexed  question  of  encouragement,  which  she 
had  heard  before. 

"I  don't  know.    Anything  to  suggest  ?" 

"Let's  see — what's  your  farm  named?  It's  Oak  Hill, 
isn't  it?  Why  don't  you  call  yourself  Knight  of  Oak 
Hill?" 

"I'd  kind  of  like  something  more  fancy." 

She  came  out  with  the  brutal  truth:  "I  think  you'd  be 
funny  with  a  fancy  name." 

His  red  face  became  redder,  suffused  with  anger  at  the 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  251 

sting.  "Much  obliged  for  your  very  complimentary  re- 
mark." 

Judy  was  not  sorry  to  have  annoyed  him.  Perhaps  now 
he  would  go.  "Oh,  you're  welcome,"  she  returned,  casually. 

He  choked  back  his  resentment.  "Maybe  Knight  of  Oak 
Hill  would  be  the  best.  What's  your  Pa's  place  called?" 

"It  hasn't  got  any  name.  I  wish  it  had.  Unc'  Mart 
Bladen's  place  is  named  Tlaindealing.'  Isn't  that  nice? 
His  great-great-great — I  don't  know  how  many  great- 
grandfathers named  it  so.  And  the  old  Salisbury  place  is 
named  'Hab-nab-at-a- Venture,'  from  the  very  first  grant. 
I  wonder  how  they  ever  got  such  names  ?" 

"Your  Grandpa  Wfest's  old  place  was  part  of  'Liden's 
Venture'  tract,  and  there's  another  farm  down  the  county 
called  'Liden's  Folly.'  I  don't  think  it  was  the  same  Lidcn." 

Her  interest  in  the  names  of  farms  vanished.  She 
wished  he  would  go,  oh,  how  she  wished  he  would  gol 
"Isn't  it  hot?"  she  said.  "It  gives  me  kind  of  a  headache." 

"How'd  you  like  it  if  I  was  to  hitch  up  and  we'd  take 
a  little  spin  ?" 

"In  this  dust  and  heat?  It'd  be  awful.  And  your  poor 
horse'd  die." 

"You  think  a  lot  more  about  my  horse  than  you  do  of 
me." 

A  barbed  speech  quivered  on  the  tip  of  Judy's  tongue,  but 
she  restrained  it.  "Are  you  going  to  practice  up  for  the 
tournament?"  she  asked  languidly. 

"You  bet  you.  I'm  going  to  rig  up  a  pole-and-ring  down 
in  the  pasture  and  get  me  a  lance  and  ride  there  every 
evening.  I'll  be  able  to  pick  off  the  rings  with  my  eyes  shut 
in  a  couple  weeks.  You  unde'stand  I'm  going  to  take  you 
to  the  tournament." 

What  little  pig  eyes  he  had!  Pig's  eyes  or  toad's  eyes, 
she  couldn't  decide  which.  "If  Pa  lets  me  go,"  she  made 
proviso,  hoping  fervently  that  he  wouldn't. 

The  weary  hour  wore  away  and  the  fingers  of  shade 
crept  slowly,  slowly,  lengthening  dreamily,  almost  imper- 


252  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

ceptibly,  and  the  maple  leaves  began  to  whisper  faintly  of 
the  coming  evening,  softly,  turning  here  and  there  a  silver 
leaf-palm  to  beg  for  the  cool  relief  of  its  coming.  Judy 
yawned,  once,  twice.  "It's  the  heat,"  she  said,  and  let  her 
eyelids  droop.  Young  Ed  was  not  proof  against  such  signs 
of  drowsiness.  At  last  he  went  to  the  barn  and  hitched  up 
his  horse  and  drove  away. 

Instantly  Judy's  drowsiness  left  her.  She  ran  upstairs, 
slipped  into  her  blue  calico  day  dress,  hurried  down  the 
back  way,  snatching  her  kitchen  sunbonnet  as  she  went. 
Mammy  Rachel,  sitting  in  somnolent  leisure  on  the  back 
doorstep,  watched  her  go. 

"Don'  you  stay  too  late,"  she  cautioned  her.  "Yof  Pa's 
gotter  nose  sha'p  as  er  houn'  dawg  fo'  smellin'  trouble.  Ef 
he  come  atter  me,  wheah  I  gwine  say  you  is  ?" 

"You  make  up  something,"  said  Judy,  laughing.  "He 
don't  mind  if  I  just  go  out  for  a  walk  around." 

"Walk  eroun',"  grumbled  Rachel,  left  to  herself.  "Walk 
eroun'  soun'  like  nuffin'  tall." 

She  ran  through  the  heat,  she  did  not  feel  it,  but  she  was 
scarlet  with  exhaustion  and  dripping  sweat  when  she 
reached  the  river-bank.  Lee,  his  troubled  face  clearing 
magically,  was  waiting  by  the  moored  boat.  "I'd  about 
given  you  up,"  he  said,  "but  I  thought  I'd  wait  till  sun- 
down." 

Judy  made  a  weary  gesture  of  disgust.  "It's  that  Ed 
Galloway.  He  came  home  with  us  from  church  and  he's 
been  hanging  round  ever  since,  sitting  there,  like  a  bump 
on  a  log,  till  I  could've  screamed." 

She  dropped  into  the  boat,  and  Lee  took  the  oars. 

"I  wish  you  didn't  have  to  be  bothered  with  him,"  said 
Lee.  "It  makes  me  so  mad  I  can  hardly  stand  it,  thinking 
of  you — with  him." 

"It  makes  me  mad,  too.  Him  and  his  old  tournaments! 
A  lot  I  care  about  it !" 

"Tournaments — is  there  going  to  be  a  tournament?" 

She  told  him  all  that  Young  Ed  had  said  of  it  and  he  lis- 
tened with  excited  attention.  "I  wish  I  had  a  horse,"  he 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  253 

said  at  last.  "My,  I'd  like  to  ride  in  a  tournament  with  a 
lance  and  everything." 

"Ask  Unc'  Mart  for  a  horse." 

"I  don't  ask  any  favors  of  anybody — not  even  of  him." 

"You're  too  proud." 

"I'd  rather  be  too  proud  than  not  proud  enough." 

The  remembered  annoyance  of  Young  Ed's  stay  had  van- 
ished and  she  was  cooler,  fanning  herself  with  her  sun- 
bonnet.  There  was  a  little  drift  of  air  along  the  water  to 
help  her.  "You're  touchy,  too,"  she  persisted,  with  a 
sparkle  of  teasing. 

He  was  serious,  disregarding  her.  A  bitter  suspicion 
was  in  his  mind.  "Did  Ed  Galloway  say  he'd  crown  you 
Queen  if  he  won  ?" 

"He  won't  win — what's  the  use  of  talking  about  it?" 

"But  did  he  say  so?"  Manhood  was  coming  to  him 
swiftly  under  the  spur  of  jealousy,  the  boy  in  him  was 
dying. 

Judy  felt  the  change,  responded  to  it  by  a  spurt  of  shy- 
ness. 

"He  did  say  something  about  it — but  it's  not  likely  Pa'll 
even  let  me  go.  And  if  I  did  go,  Ed  wouldn't  win.  He 
don't  ride  so  good." 

"But  he's  got  good  horses.  And  he'll  be  practicing  up. 
Oh,  Judy — look  here — I'm  nothing — I'm  nobody — now — • 
I'm  like  the  dirt  under  your  feet,  but  if — but  if — "  He 
stuttered,  faltered,  not  knowing  how  to  go  about  this 
avowal,  drawn  from  him  unawares.  He  could  not  say  it, 
he  did  not  know  how  to  say  it,  and  so — the  words  changed, 
changed  to  a  lesser  import,  in  themselves,  but  not  to  a  lesser 
import  in  the  saying. 

" — if  I — if  I  should  somehow — get  a  horse — and  ride  in 
that  tournament — and  you — and  you  should  be  there — and 
I  should  win  the  most  rings — would  you — would  you  let  me 
crown  you  the  Queen,  there  before  all  of  'em?" 

Judy  was  not  aware  of  the  change  in  him.  She  had  not 
changed,  she  was  still  the  child,  frank,  untroubled  by  any 


254  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

stirring  of  dim  organic  memories.  "Of  course  I  would. 
Why  not?  And  what  do  you  want  to  talk  that  queer  way 
for?  Dirt  under  my  feet!  If  I  said  that  to  you  you'd  be 
raving." 

He  was  resolved,  relieved  somehow,  by  her  unawareness, 
her  plain  speech.  He  did  not  answer  her,  nor  did  he  speak 
to  her  again  of  the  tournament.  But  it  filled  his  heart  with 
resolution.  He  would  place  himself,  clearly,  honestly  be- 
fore the  world  as  a  youth  of  dash  and  gallantry,  able  to  com- 
pete with  other  youth,  and  not  just  Joe  Kemp's  boy,  almost 
a  pariah,  almost  as  low  down  as  a  poor-white.  He  saw  him- 
self thus,  winning,  with  people  whispering  about  him, 
smiling  with  kindness  and  understanding.  He  saw  himself 
with  the  prize,  the  crown,  striding  triumphantly  before  all 
the  gazing  eyes,  and  bringing  it  to  Judy,  offering  it  with  a 
fine  gesture.  Not  for  nothing  had  he  pored  over  Walter 
Scott. 

"It'll  be  kind  of  like  'Ivanhoe,' "  he  said  aloud,  glowing, 
to  Judy,  not  answering  her  words. 

"D'you  think  you  can  get  a  horse  somewheres?" 

"I  got  to  get  one,"  he  answered  briefly. 

"You  going  to  ask  Unc'  Mart,  after  all?"  she  teased. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.    I  don't  see  how  I  can." 

"Well,  while  you're  thinking  about  it,  you'd  better  row 
back.  I  certainly  have  got  to  get  home — look  at  the  shad- 
ows. If  I'm  not  there  for  supper — " 

As  she  stepped  out  of  the  boat  he  reminded  her:  "You 
promised  that — you  know — " 

"What  did  I  promise?" 

"You  promised — if  I  won — you'd  let  me  crown  you  the 
Queen." 

"Oh  that.    Yes,  of  course  I  promised." 

"Well, — I'm  going  to  do  it.  I'll  make  Ed  Galloway  look 
like  a  monkey  on  a  stick." 

"Don't  you  make  too  many  brags  beforehand,"  she 
warned  him.  But  he  knew  she  wanted  him  to  win. 

But  he  was  in  a  corner.     He  had  no  horse, — he  had  no 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  255 

remote  chance  of  getting  a  horse,  and  he  would  not  put  his 
case  before  Mart,  for  the  pride  about  which  Judy  had 
twitted  him  choked  him  silent.  He  could  not,  in  all  honor, 
even  practice  tournament  riding  with  any  of  Mart's  horses, 
without  telling  him.  And  yet — he  must,  he  must  ride  in 
that  tournament.  He  must  win  it.  He  must  crown  Judy 
the  Queen,  there  before  them  all,  triumphantly.  If  he  could 
only  do  this,  he  saw  his  future  established  and  the  dis- 
esteem  of  his  father,  the  reproachful  shiftlessness  of  his 
family,  wiped  out.  He  would  have  shown  his  mettle,  con- 
clusively. His  imagination  ran  riot  in  strange  secret  igno- 
rant ways,  knowing  so  little  of  the  motives  that  actuate  the 
average  mass  of  men  and  women,  confident  that  with  this 
one  show  and  display  of  himself  as  conqueror,  he  must  win 
all  public  esteem.  No  more  hateful  antagonistic  looks  from 
John  Henry  Hyde,  and  others  of  his  ilk.  No  more  half- 
pitying,  half-patronizing  asides  from  his  father's  old  cronies : 
"That's  Joe  Kemp's  boy — ain't  he  like?"  No  more — and 
here  he  touched  the  peak  of  his  desire — seeing  Judy  in 
secret,  hidden  ways.  No,  he  could  be  open,  he  could  dis- 
possess Ed  Galloway,  he  could — he  could — he  must  not 
dream  farther,  or  more  particularly.  Only,  in  whatever 
future  he  would  win,  Judy  must  share. 

All  this,  he  reminded  himself  presently,  got  him  no  horse. 
There  was  not  an  available  animal  anywhere  on  his  horizon. 
A  good  horse — one  that  would  do  him  credit,  would  cost 
a  hundred  and  fifty  or  two  hundred  dollars,  perhaps  more. 
The  sum  was  infinitely  beyond  him.  Even  if  he  had  a 
horse,  he  had  no  place  to  stable  it,  and  its  feed  would 
have  to  be  bought.  He  was  so  solitary,  so  full  of  young 
touchy  pride  that  there  was  no  one  to  whom  he  could 
turn  to  ask  a  favor  like  this,  except  Mart,  and  his  very 
idolatry  for  the  older  man  kept  him  from  doing  it.  Mart 
Bladen  had  done  enough  for  him,  more  than  he  had  ever 
expected  or  hoped  for.  He  would  not  ask  him  for  the 
least  thing. 

The  difficulty  was  presently  resolved  by  Mart  himself, 


256  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

very  simply.  He  did  not  guess  Lee's  secret  preoccupation, 
but  he  did  hear  of  the  tournament  and  one  night,  when  he 
and  the  boy  had  gone  to  ride  together,  he  spoke  of  it. 

"It's  going  to  be  quite  a  splurge,  they  say.  Wish  I  was 
younger — I'd  take  Chloe  here  and  show  my  dust  to  every 
man  Jack  of  'em.  What  say,  now,  Lee,  you  practice  up  a 
while  with  Florrie,  and  enter?  Would  you  like  to?"  He 
had  spoken  with  careless,  generous  kindness,  unaware  of 
how  the  boy's  whole  soul  was  centered  on  just  this  one 
thing.  Lee's  silence  perplexed  him.  "Don't  do  it  if  you'd 
rather  not — but  I  thought,  maybe,  it'd  be  kind  of  fun  for 
you.  And  I  know  I  can  trust  you  to  look  after  Florrie." 

Tons  of  weight  were  lifting  from  Lee's  heart,  and  his 
throat  was  choked  with  a  lump  as  big  as  his  fist.  His  voice 
shook  with  fervor.  "I'd  rather  do  it  than  anything  in  the 
world,  Mr.  Bladen.  I'll  never  be  able  to  thank  you — I'll 
take  such  care  of  Florrie — " 

"Why,  I  know  you  will,"  said  Mart,  surprised  and  a  little 
troubled  by  the  boy's  agitation.  "Why  in  time  didn't  you 
tell  me  you  wanted  to  enter,  you  young  scoundrel?  You 
knew  I'd  let  you  have  a  horse,  didn't  you?" 

"I  didn't  like  to  ask." 

"I  supposed  you  thought  more  of  me  than  that.  But 
you  take  Florrie,  anyway,  and  rig  up  a  ring-pole  somewhere 
on  the  place,  or  maybe  two  or  three  of  'em,  and  I'll  give 
you  some  fine  points  about  tournament  riding.  You  can 
take  some  old  harness  rings,  and  a  good  straight  hickory 
for  a  lance — "  Mart  went  on  elaborating  the  preparations, 
his  own  anticipation  and  excitement  growing  as  he  talked. 
It  would  be  as  much  fun  for  him  as  for  the  boy.  It  would 
be  great ! 

And  in  the  dark  beside  him  Lee  rode,  not  trying  to  listen, 
and  not  daring  to  lift  his  hand  to  wipe  off  the  tears  that 
were  running  down  his  cheeks.  He  could  not  let  Mart 
know  that  he  was  crying — he  was  not  sure  himself  what 
he  was  crying  about.  All  that  he  knew  was  that  a  miracle 
had  happened,  and  that  he  was  the  happiest  boy  alive. 


CHAPTER  SEVEN 

IT  was  a  hot,  late  summer,  humid,  yet  parchingly  dry. 
All  the  wetness  of  the  days  was  this  wet,  sticky,  oppressive 
heat,  that  mocked  the  parched  earth,  scorched  the  grass 
and  leaves,  brought  suffering  and  leanness  to  beasts  and 
frayed  and  fretted  the  nerves,  depleted  the  strength  of  hu- 
man beings. 

This  stifling,  reeking  heat,  this  succession  of  sweating, 
breathless  days,  piled  up  still  farther,  deepened  the  darkness 
of  the  cloud  on  the  mind  of  John  Henry  Hyde.  His  se- 
verity increased,  and  his  unreason. 

He  worked  his  field  hands  so  viciously  that  two  of  them 
left,  in  the  night,  as  negro  workers  often  do,  feeling  that 
they  can  never  successfully  oppose  their  wills  against  a 
white  man,  but  must  evade  him  to  escape  his  will.  So, 
being  short  of  labor,  he  worked  himself  each  day  to  the 
point  of  exhaustion.  He  would  come  in  at  night  staggering, 
weak,  but  borne  on  by  his  fanatical  will,  his  brows  knitted 
into  their  line  of  wrath,  his  burning  restless  eyes  seeking 
offense.  He  would  sit  silent,  too  tired  to  speak,  until  his 
strength  was  a  little  recruited,  and  then  he  was  ready  to  lash 
out — at  Louellen,  at  Mammy  Rachel,  occasionally  at  Virgie 
and  Bud,  but  most  often  at  Judy.  And  at  his  lengthy  cere- 
monial of  family  prayers  he  would  pray  bitterly  and  humili- 
atingly  for  her  froward  and  contumacious  spirit,  until  she 
was  reduced  to  stinging  tears. 

One  by  one  he  deprived  her,  with  particularity,  of  each 
thing  that  he  knew  gave  her  pleasure. 

"You're  not  to  go  over  to  Mart  Bladen's  any  more,"  he 
told  her  bitingly.  "You're  too  big  a  girl  to  go  running  into 
the  house  of  a  man  of  Mart's  loose  character.  And  you're 
not  to  run  out  to  the  road  to  speak  to  him  as  he  goes  by. 
Nor  take  presents  from  him." 

257 


258  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

"But  why — why?"  asked  Judy.  "You  always  used  to 
let  me." 

"Because  I  say  not,  that's  why,  and  that's  sufficient 
reason.  He's  a  man  of  well-known  bad  character,  and  he's 
harboring  that  son  of  Joe  Kemp's,  the  worst  rip  and  drunk 
ever  lived  in  this  county.  I  know  very  well  that  nothing'd 
suit  you  better  than  to  collogue  with  just  such  riff-raff.  But 
you're  not  going  to  do  it." 

Judy  dared  not  answer  him  further.  John  Henry's  allu- 
sion to  Lee  Kemp  filled  her  with  confusion — perhaps  he 
had  guessed  in  some  uncanny  fashion  that  she  knew  the 
boy.  But  no, — if  he  had  known  that,  further  execration 
would  have  been  her  portion,  perhaps  some  sort  of  cun- 
ningly devised  punishment. 

Another  perpetual  complaint  he  had  against  her  was  her 
laughter.  She  had  always  stilled  it  in  his  presence,  but 
now  she  checked  her  mirth,  always  so  easy  to  come,  so  light, 
so  gay,  when  there  was  not  the  slightest  chance  that  he 
might  be  within  earshot. 

"The  crackling  of  thorns  under  a  pot,  so  is  the  laughter 
of  a  fool,"  he  quoted  at  her,  hearing  her,  and  alluded  in  his 
prayers  that  night  to  her  lightness  and  vanity,  signposts  on 
the  way  to  perdition. 

Virgie  and  Bud  sympathized,  but  that  was  no  ease  to  her. 
Louellen,  to  whom  she  turned  in  passionate  resentment, 
urged  her  to  be  quiet,  and  patient.  "Your  Pa's  all  over- 
wrought with  the  trouble  he's  been  having  with  the  drought, 
and  the  crops  drying  up,"  she  said.  "He's  not  himself. 
But  if  you  don't  say  anything  he'll  come  around  presently." 

"I  wish  I  could  go  away,"  wept  Judy.  "I  wish  I  could 
go  away  and  never  come  back.  Send  me  out  to  California 
to  Aunt  Annie,  won't  you,  Mother?  Write  and  ask  her  if 
I  can't  come  stay  out  there  with  her  till  Pa  gets  over  his  spite 
at  me." 

"Your  Pa  would  never  let  you  go.  And  I  haven't  got  the 
money  myself.  I  wisht  I  had.  I  believe  to  my  soul  I  would 
send  you." 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  259 

"I  don't  see  why  I  have  to  stay  here  and  stand  it." 

Louellen  was  thinking  of  the  money  that  had  been  hers, 
and  how  she  had  given  it  over  into  John  Henry's  eager 
hands  as  part  of  the  price  of  her  deliverance  from  his  de- 
sires. Now  she  wondered  if  it  had  not  been  better  to  have 
lived  with  him  again,  better  to  have  yielded  to  him,  than  to 
be  penniless  when  her  need  was  so  great  for  Judy.  Oh, 
to  have  that  money,  even  a  little  of  it !  The  driblets  of  egg- 
and-butter  money  she  obtained  vanished  as  quickly  as  they 
accumulated,  in  clothes  for  herself  and  the  two  girls,  in 
linen  for  the  house,  and  small  things  for  the  kitchen,  cur- 
tains and  the  like.  John  Henry's  avarice  would  not  have 
tolerated  that  she  save  anything  substantial  from  this 
source.  She  thought  of  writing  to  Annie,  and  telling  her 
need — but  that  was  impossible.  The  self-contained  spirit 
of  the  Wests  forbade  it,  save  as  a  last  resort.  Besides,  she 
owned  it  to  herself,  she  wanted  Judy  near  her.  She  wanted 
Judy,  her  baby,  her  own.  .  .  . 

"Hard  words  break  no  bones,  Judy,"  she  said,  crisply. 
'"You  must  just  think  of  your  Pa  as  a  sick  man  and  not 
responsible  for  what  he  says,  and  forget  about  it.  And 
try  not  to  provoke  him  any  more  than  you  can." 

"His  hard  words  hurt  me  as  much  as  if  he  broke  my 
bones,"  Judy  returned  resentfully.  "I'm  afraid  to  breathe 
when  he's  in  the  house.  The  only  times  he  treats  me  half 
way  decent  is  when  Ed  Galloway's  here,  and  I'd  rather  he'd 
be  mean  than  have  that  old  toad  hanging  round." 

"Well,  try  and  be  as  careful  as  you  can." 

"I  am  careful.  I  try  not  to  do  a  thing.  But  it  don't 
make  any  difference — he  prays  for  me  just  as  mean. 
Mother,  I  just  wish  I  had  a  chance  to  pray  for  him  some 
time — out  loud.  Wouldn't  I  read  his  title  clear  ?  Oh,  my !" 

"You  mustn't  talk  that  way  about  him.  It's  wrong — it's 
sinful." 

Judy  shrugged  her  shoulders  unconvinced.  This  was  a 
queer  world  she  had  reached,  this  grown-up  land,  where 
you  had  to  have  hateful  beaux  hanging  round,  and  where 


260  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

your  own  father  took  a  hard  spite  on  you,  and  made  your 
life  miserable.  But  it  was  plain  that  she  would  receive  only 
negative  consolation  from  her  mother. 

In  Mammy  Rachel,  however,  she  had  an  open  champion. 
To  that  ample  bosom  Judy  could  fly,  sure  of  a  refuge  and 
unstinted  sympathy.  The  old  woman  had  never  liked  John 
Henry.  She  had  come  to  Louellen  only  because  Annie  had 
gone  so  far  away,  and  her  loyalty  demanded  that  she  should 
serve  a  West.  Between  her  and  the  master  of  the  house 
there  had  always  been  an  unspoken  antipathy,  expressed,  on 
Rachel's  part,  by  a  disregard  of  his  tastes  and  wishes 
wherever  possible,  by  neglect  of  and  indirect  disobedience 
to  all  his  orders.  All  this  is  the  habitual  negro  way  of 
showing  dislike  for  those  in  authority  over  them,  and  only 
Rachel's  excellence  as  a  servant,  and  the  fact  that  her  wages 
were  low,  prevented  John  Henry  from  driving  her  out  of 
his  house.  She  made  him  uneasy,  she  had  a  moral  supe- 
riority over  him  that  he  would  never  acknowledge,  but 
which  he  felt.  She  did  not  respect  him,  and  he  knew  it. 
She  could  film  her  eyes,  gypsy  fashion,  and  give  him  a 
blank  stare  when  he  scolded  her  that  made  him  feel  his  in- 
adequacy before  her.  It  had  been  so  from  the  first  day  she 
came,  and  now  she  eagerly  welcomed  the  chance  to  take 
Judy's  part,  to  comfort  and  sustain  her. 

"Nemmine,  my  lammie,  nemmine,"  she  told  her.  "Happy 
times  on  dey  way  to  you,  sho's  yo'  bo'n.  Trouble  fus',  do. 
My  lef  eye  been  ertwitchin'  en  ertwitchin',  en  dat  a  sho' 
sign  er  trouble  on  de  way.  But  tain'  gwine  las' — dat  sho'  en 
certain." 

She  gave  Judy  plain  counsel,  too,  as  to  Ed  Galloway. 
"Ef  he  try  puttin'  his  han's  on  you,  my  honey,  you  haul  off 
en  blam  him  in  de  face,  good  en  plenty.  Doan  you  let  him 
hug  you  up  ner  kiss  you,  ner  tek  a  holt  er  yo'  han's.  Dem 
Galloways  ain'  no  good  blood,  en  he  am'  gwine  tech  my 
lamb,  dat  he  ain'.  Ef  he  try  any  his  fresh  ways  wid  you, 
you  knock  him  erway,  en  use  yo'  finger  nails  on  him  ef  he 
tries  ter  keep  on.  Yo'  heah  me,  chile?" 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  261 

"He  did  try  to  hold  onto  my  hand,"  confessed  Judy,  "but 
I  pulled  it  away  from  him.  He  makes  me  sick.  Oh,  if  Pa 
just  wouldn't  ask  him  here  to  dinner  all  the  time !" 

"I'd  like  ter  put  groun'  glass  in  his  biscuit,"  grumbled 
Rachel.  "Back  in  slave  times  my  mammy  tole  me  erbout  a 
ooman  took  a  pizen  hate  on  her  marster,  en  she  bake  him 
up  a  lil  cake,  all  full  er  nuts  en  raisins,  wid  fine  groun' 
glass  in  it,  en  he  die  en  nobody  neveh  did  fine  out  whut 
ail  'im.  All  de  cullud  folks,  dey  know." 

"Oh,  that  was  awful!  She  committed  murder.  She 
might  have  been  hung." 

Rachel  nodded  a  sibylline  head,  smiling  faintly.  "Lots 
er  things  go  on  in  slave  times  dat  nobody  ain'  know  about, 
honey.  Bad  things.  Yes,  ma'am,  an'  I'll  tell  you  who  dat 
ole  man  was — he  uz  ole  Billy  Galloway's  fadder — dishyer 
go-lightly  Young  Ed's  grea'-gran'pa,  dat  who." 

Beyond  these  dark  revelations,  Mammy  Rachel  was  of 
practical  help.  If  John  Henry  sent  Judy  supperless  to  her 
room,  Rachel  smuggled  up  food  to  her,  instantly  and  surely. 
When  he  forbade  her  to  go  again  to  Mart  Bladen's,  Rachel 
instituted  herself  as  scout  and  spy. 

"You  go,  honey,  you  go  erlong,"  she  said.  "I'll  keep 
watch  en  ward  ovah  you.  Yo'  Pa  a  sly  ole  fox,  but  he  ain' 
so  sly  ez  Rachel." 

"But  if  he  finds  out  he  might  send  you  off,"  demurred 
Judy.  "I  don't  want  you  to  run  risks  for  me." 

Rachel  laughed  joyfully,  welcoming  contention  with  John 
Henry. 

"Yo'  Pa  ain'  gwine  sen'  me  off,  neveh,  no  time,  nohow," 
she  said.  "I  lak  ter  see  him  try  it,  dass  all." 

"Well,  I'm  just  going  this  once — to  tell  Unc'  Mart  what 
Pa  said.  I  think  it's  only  right  to  do  it.  I  wouldn't  want 
Unc'  Mart  to  think  I  didn't  love  him  any  more  and  was 
acting  offish  on  my  own  will." 

So  when  John  Henry  was  making  one  of  his  regular 
trips  to  the  newly  established  creamery,  she  took  the  short 
cut  across  the  fields  between  the  two  farms.  It  was  not 


262  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

much  used,  this  path — briers  clutched  her  calico  skirt,  and 
she  had  to  put  up  a  warding  hand  to  keep  the  crowding 
sassafras  and  pokeberry  from  her  face.  There  was  a  patch 
of  clay  where  the  path  dipped  into  a  gully  and  this  she  edged 
round  carefully,  balancing  on  grass  hummocks  and  stones. 
Presently  she  reached  the  boundary  line,  scaled  the  fence, 
and  dropped  down  into  Mart  Bladen's  orchard,  where  the 
twisting  half -obliterated  path  led  her  through,  and  out 
again,  near  the  stables.  She  could  hear  some  one  whistling, 
and  knew  Mart's  favorite  tune: 

"Hi,  Betty  Martin,  tiptoe,  tiptoe — " 

The  familiar  lilt  of  it,  her  own  forlornity,  sent  her  in  to 
him  at  a  run,  eager  to  be  with  some  one  warm  and  living 
and  responsive.  He  was  stooping  over  a  feed  bin  when 
she  caught  him  round  the  neck. 

"Oh,  Unc'  Mart — dear  and  darling — I'm  so  glad  to 
see  you — " 

Such  fervent  demonstration  was  unusual,  but  he  straight- 
ened, beaming,  and  hugged  her  a  welcome.  "Why,  you 
little  rascal — how'd  you  sneak  up  on  me?  I  ain't  seen  you 
for  a  month  of  Sundays.  Lemme  look  at  you.  Hey, 
what's  all  this  for?"  For  her  eyes  had  filled  with  quick 
tears,  their  blueness  deepening,  darkening  behind  the  with- 
held shower. 

"I  did  sneak  up,  Unc'  Mart.  Pa  says  I'm  not  to  come 
over  here  any  more — that  I'm  not  to  run  out  to  the  road 
to  hail  you  as  you  go  by,  that  I'm  not  to  let  you  bring  me 
any  candy — nothing." 

"What's  all  this  ?"  He  put  his  arm  around  her,  and  they 
sat  down  together  on  the  feed  bin  in  the  shadowy  hayscented 
barn,  a  cave  of  coolness  in  the  heat. 

She  repeated  it,  her  head  against  his  shoulder.  She 
poured  out  all  her  woes.  He  listened,  troubled,  frowning, 
wondering.  There  was  a  dark,  a  menacing  significance 
back  and  beneath  this — he  could  not  tell  what. 

"And  what  does  your  Ma  say,  honey?"  he  asked  at  last. 

Judy  told  Louellen's  warning.    "And  Unc'  Mart,  Mammy 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  263 

Rachel's  the  only  one  who  really  takes  my  part.  She's 
watching  out  for  me  now,  so's  I  could  come  over  here  to 
see  you.  Oh,  Unc'  Mart,  you  know  I  think  the  world  and 
all  of  you — I  don't  want  not  to  see  you.  I  think  more  of 
you  than  anybody  there  is,  anywhere.  You're  awful  dear 
to  me,  somehow,  even  if  you  aren't  real  blood-kin." 

The  arm  about  her  trembled,  tightened  a  little.  "As 
God's  my  witness,  Judy,"  said  Mart  Bladen,  "you're  dearer 
to  me  than  everybody  and  anybody  in  this  world.  I  want  to 
see  you  happy.  I  want — oh,  what's  the  use — my  hands  are 
tied.  What  can  I  do  ?" 

"But  I  didn't  expect  you  to  do  anything.  I  only  came 
because  I  wanted  you  not  to  forget  about  me,  even  if  I 
didn't  see  you  so  often.  When  Pa's  away,  safe  away,  you 
know,  I'm  coming  sometimes.  But  maybe  it  might  be  long 
times  in  between — " 

"No — I  don't  want  you  to,  Judy.  I  want  you  to  bide 
by  what  your  Ma  says.  If  she  thinks  you  ought  to  do  like — • 
he  says — then  you  do  it.  She's  right  there  and  she  knows 
best." 

He  recalled  his  talk  with  Lee  now  two  months  past. 
"You  been  out  boat-ridin'  with  Lee  a  good  bit,  ain't  you, 
Judy?" 

"Only  now  and  again.  It's  so  hard  to  get  away  from  Pa. 
He's  got  eyes  in  the  back  of  his  head,  and  he  can  see  pret' 
near  a  mile,  seems  to  me." 

"Then  he  don't  know  you  been  going?" 

"Oh,  my,  no.  If  he  did — well,  he'd  be  crosser'n  ever.  He 
don't  like  Lee  and  he  don't  think  you  ought  to  keep  him 
here.  He's  said  that  all  round  the  neighborhood.  That's 
one  reason  why  he  don't  want  me  to  come  over  here  any 
more,  because  Lee's  here." 

Mart  Bladen  shook  with  his  unuttered  profanity.  "But 
yet  he  sent  you  out  buggy-riding  with  Young  Ed  Galloway." 
He  spoke  incautiously,  though  he  was  determined  on  cau- 
tion. No  use  to  set  Judy  against  John  Henry.  It  was 
hard  enough  for  her  as  it  was.  And  if  Louellen  had  coun- 


264  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

seled  patience.  .  .  .  He  wished  life  would  not  bewilder 
and  entangle  him  so.  He  did  not  like  it.  He  was  in  a 
smothering,  uncertain  region,  with  Judy  clinging  to  him 
like  a  helpless  kitten,  soft  and  round-eyed  and  needful  of 
his  protection,  and  his  hands — what  had  he  said? — his 
hands  tied — his  head  in  a  bag.  God,  what  a  mess ! 

"How  old  are  you  now,  Judy?" 

"I'll  be  sixteen  my  next  birthday." 

Sixteen — two  years  before  she  was  of  age.  Meantime, 
tight  in  John  Henry's  paternal  grasp.  He  knew  the  stand- 
ing that  John  Henry  had  in  the  community.  A  man  not 
liked,  but  respected  for  his  rigid  piety,  his  substance.  The 
unruly  daughter  who  went  against  a  man  like  that  would 
be  wholly  condemned.  Mart  struggled  with  the  stiff  prob- 
lem of  things  as  they  seem  and  things  as  they  are.  Hard 
to  tell  in  such  case  whether  to  do  the  right  thing  or  the  ex- 
pedient, the  politic.  With  Louellen,  he  chose  the  expedient. 
He  hardly  listened  to  what  Judy  was  saying,  explaining 
her  dislike,  her  horror  of  Young  Ed. 

"...  I  just  despise  him.  I  like  Lee  lots  better."  She 
finished. 

"Lee  ever  come  over  to  see  you?"  asked  Mart,  suspi- 
ciously. 

"Why,  no,  Unc'  Mart, — only  once  or  twice  when  I  was 
sitting  out  on  the  porch  by  myself  of  an  evening.  He  knows 
Pa  wouldn't  like  him  to  come  over  there,  and  he  don't  want 
to  come  where  he's  been  talked  down  so.  He's  touchy. 
But  sometimes  he  comes — because  he's  sorry  for  me.  And 
we  just  sit  there  and  don't  say  anything.  But  I  like  to  have 
him  come,  even  so." 

"Hmm — yes.  Well,  now,  look  here,  Judy,  you  better  do 
like  your  mother  says.  I'll  try  to  get  along  without  you, 
though  Lord  knows  I'll  miss  you.  And  when  you're  a 
little  older,  maybe  happier  times'll  come.  .  .  ." 

"That's  what  Rachel  says.  She  says  they're  bound  to 
come.  All  is,  I  don't  see  how  I'm  going  to  stand  Pa  till 
they  get  here."  Her  frankness  had  no  malice  in  it.  It  was 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  265 

a  plain  question,  a  matter  of  endurance,  and  her  eyes  turned 
deep  with  tears  again  at  the  thought. 

"Oh,  land  sake !"  exclaimed  Mart,  getting  up  and  stamp- 
ing about.  "We  got  to  contrive  something.  Now  there's 
that  old  holler  oak  tree  out  along  the  road,  'bout  half-way 
betwixt  my  front  gate  and  yours.  I'll  drop  a  bag  of  licorice 
or  pep'mints  in  there  every  time  I  come  from  town,  honey, 
and  thataway  you'll  know  I'm  thinking  about  you.  And 
you  might  stick  me  in  a  little  note  every  so  often,  telling 
me  the  news.  How  about  that?  And  I'll  put  a  flea  in 
Lee's  ear  not  to  come  over  to  your  house  no  more,  since 
John  Henry's  so  down  on  him.  He's  mighty  taken  up  with 
practicing  for  the  tournament — " 

"Oh,  Unc'  Mart,  you  did  loan  him  a  horse?"  She  was 
radiant,  her  tears  instantly  dried.  "He  said  he  wouldn't 
ask  you,  you'd  done  so  much  for  him  already." 

"That  fool  boy,  all  eat  up  with  pride!  Yes,  I  loaned 
him  a  horse,  and  he's  riding  every  evening,  down  in  the  back 
pasture  lot.  But  I  think  I'd  a  little  ruther  he  didn't  come 
over  to  your  house.  If  John  Henry  found  it  out  he  might 
make  out  he  come  for  some  bad  purpose,  stealing  or  some- 
thing." 

"Then  I'll  put  a  note  in  the  hollow  oak  for  him,  too, 
sometimes." 

Mart  looked  crest-fallen.  "Now  you  won't  do  any  such 
a  thing.  That  oak  tree's  our  post  office,  yours  and  mine, 
and  I  won't  have  any  young  sprig  cutting  in  on  me." 

"You're  an  old  jealous." 

"Maybe  I  am,  maybe  I  am,  miss.  But  you  got  to  hunt 
up  another  holler  tree  if  you  want  to  leave  any  notes  for 
Lee  in  'em." 

She  stood  on  tiptoe  to  reach  the  height  of  his  shoulders, 
with  her  hands  clinging  fondly  about  his  neck.  She  held 
her  lips  for  his  kiss.  "I  got  to  go  now — Pa  might  be  back. 
Good-by,  Unc'  Mart,  dear  Unc'  Mart,  you  old  jealous. 
Don't  forget  the  licorice." 


266  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

"You  little  rascal — don't  you  fear.  And  no  notes  for 
Lee  in  my  tree.  You  remember  that." 

Their  good-by  sparkled  between  tears  and  laughter,  but 
when  she  had  gone  Mart  Bladen  sat  disconsolately,  humped 
over,  on  the  feed  box.  For  the  first  time  he  felt  the  en- 
croaching finger  of  age  upon  his  spirit,  cold,  unpitying.  He 
must  say  nothing  for  Judy.  He  must  do  nothing  for  her. 
She  was  taken  from  him,  cut  away  from  him  with  ruthless 
malice,  and  he  could  not  stir  to  prevent  it. 

"Looks  like  John  Henry's  got  the  best  of  me  this  time," 
he  thought,  drearily,  "but  what's  he  getting  at,  exactly,  I 
wonder  ?  Maybe  he's  going  plumb  doggoned  crazy  after  all. 
God  knows  he  never  was  none  too  well  balanced.  We'll 
have  to  wait  and  see  .  .  .  wait  and  see.  I'd  a  heap  ruther 
go  right  on  over  and  wring  his  stringy  neck.  .  .  ."  He 
clenched  his  fist  with  a  satisfying  tensity  of  muscle.  But 
that  too  availed  nothing.  They  must  all  leave  things  as 
they  were.  They  must  wait.  He  raged  against  this  need 
of  waiting.  Was  Judy's  golden  untouched  youth  to  be 
marred — or  wasted — or  unfulfilled?  No,  no — he  could  not 
endure  that.  But  still — again  he  felt  his  old  unwillingness 
to  be  entangled  with  the  tragic  movement  of  life,  to  be 
impelled  and  forced  by  it,  rather  than  to  move  serenely 
through  the  days,  master  of  all  his  movements,  his  own  will 
supreme,  ruler  of  his  own  small  cycle. 


CHAPTER  EIGHT 

THE  boy,  Lee,  was  a  great  solace.  More  and  more  Mart 
turned  to  him,  made  him  a  companion,  a  son.  He  had  never 
been  drawn  to  the  broods  of  his  sisters,  they  resembled 
too  much  his  brothers-in-law,  and  that  is  always  a  sure 
means  of  family  alienation.  It  is  the  child  that  bears  the 
stamp  of  our  own  blood  to  whom  we  are  instinctively 
drawn,  in  whom  we  recognize  points  of  superiority.  And 
among  the  children  of  Mart's  two  sisters  there  was  not  one 
who  carried  the  Bladen  look,  the  Bladen  laughter. 

But  Lee,  though  he  was  dark,  though  he  was  silent,  and 
apt  to  be  serious  to  moroseness,  had  a  kinship  for  Mart  in 
his  way  with  the  farmhands,  his  way  with  the  land,  his 
way  with  the  horses  and  his  love  for  Caesar.  More,  there 
was  his  humble,  unselfish,  unasking  devotion — a  devotion 
that  would  have  brought  response  from  one  far  less  re- 
sponsive than  Mart.  Mart  turned  to  that  devotion,  began 
to  lean  on  it. 

To  the  men  with  whom  he  drank  and  played  seven-up, 
he  swore  that  he  liked  that  boy  of  Joe  Kemp's,  that  he  had 
first-rate  stuff  in  him,  that  maybe  he  was  a  throw-back,  or 
got  changed  in  the  cradle,  but  that  he  hadn't  an  ounce  of 
his  father's  wildness,  the  Kemp  shiftlessness.  He  told 
stories  of  his  cleverness,  his  handy  ways,  his  energy  and 
ability.  Gradually,  as  in  anything  a  little  out  of  the 
ordinary  brought  to  their  attention,  the  community  began 
to  look  with  interest  and  kindliness  on  young  Lee.  Occa- 
sionally some  one  would  wag  a  dismal  "Blood  will  tell"  in 
answer  to  favorable  comment,  but  for  the  most  part,  save 
among  the  strict  Sabbatarians  who  regarded  Mart  himself 
as  a  soul  past  redemption,  a  sinner  incarnate,  the  boy  gained 
a  certain  standing. 

Now  and  then  an  older  man,  some  one  of  Mart's  friends, 

267 


268  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

would  stop  him,  and  engage  him  in  friendly  aimless  talk 
for  a  moment  or  two,  and  Miss  Becca  Simpson,  meeting 
him  on  the  street  of  Manor  where  he  had  gone  on  an  er- 
rand, seized  his  hand  and  shook  it  with  vivacity. 

"You  Lee  Kemp,  aint  you?"  she  demanded,  her  little 
black  eyes  peering  at  him  brightly.  "I  thought  I  knew 
you.  You're  getting  to  be  a  man  grown,  and  a  right  fine- 
looking  one,  too.  How's  Mart  Bladen  getting  along?  You 
tell  him  he's  to  come  in  and  see  me  next  time  he  comes  to 
town,  or  I'll  be  downright  mad  at  him." 

Lee  delivered  the  message  word  for  word,  and  did  not 
try  to  conceal  his  gratification  of  being  spoken  to  by  so 
notable  a  personage  as  Miss  Becca.  "She  was  real  nice," 
he  added.  "Funny-looking,  but  nice." 

With  the  tide  of  public  favor  set  in  his  direction  he  felt 
no  bashfulness  in  entering  his  name  for  the  tournament, 
dated  now  for  a  Saturday  early  in  October.  He,  too,  like 
Young  Ed,  had  been  in  a  quandary  as  to  what  name  he 
should  ride  under,  for  every  youth  taking  part  adopted  for 
the  occasion  a  fanciful  title. 

"Why  don't  you  call  yourself  'Knight  of  Plaindealing'  ?" 
asked  Mart,  at  last.  "I  always  used  to  ride  under  that 
name." 

"You  don't  mind,  Mr.  Bladen — my  using  the  name  of 
your  farm?" 

"Of  course  not.  Where  you  get  all  these  hifaluting  ideas 
beats  me — anybody  might  think,  to  hear  you  talk,  I  didn't 
have  no  interest  in  you.  But  you  don't  need  to  use  that 
name  less'n  you  want  to.  Now  there  was  your  great- 
grandpa,  up  the  county,  he  had  a  place  called  'Come-by- 
Chance' — you  might  go  back  to  him  and  use  that  name. 
He  was  a  fine,  high-stepping  old  feller,  the  old  folks  used 
to  say." 

"I  think  'Knight  of  Come-by- Chance'  sounds  too  true," 
said  young  Lee  grimly,  after  thought.  "I'm  too  much  a 
come-by-chance  myself.  Not  that  I  mean  any  disrespect 
to  my  great-grandpa,  but — I  don't  want  folks  to  laugh  at 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  269 

me.  I'd  a  lot  rather" —  he  hesitated,  coloring,  choking  with 
the  love  he  had  for  Mart,  which  it  would  be  unmanly  to 
reveal — "I'd  a  lot  ruther  call  myself  'Knight  of  Plain- 
dealing'  than  anything,  Mr.  Bladen,  if  you  don't  mind." 

"Go  ahead  and  do  it  then,  and  quit  this  hemming  and 
hawing." 

But  beneath  Mart's  brusqueness  was  deep  satisfaction  and 
Lee  felt  it  and  was  warmed  by  it. 

He  had  practiced  faithfully  for  the  tournament.  With 
Ephum's  help  he  had  set  up  two  posts,  with  an  arm  on  one 
side,  making  great  inverted  L's.  On  the  tip  of  the  arm 
was  the  fork  which  held  the  ring,  which  the  riding  knight 
must  pick  off  with  his  lance  while  his  horse  is  at  full  gallop. 
There  would  be  three  of  these  posts  in  the  real  tournament, 
set  some  seventy  feet  apart. 

The  knights  would  wear  wide  ribbons  in  their  favored 
colors,  passed  from  shoulder  to  hip,  and  tied  jauntily,  and 
it  was  the  custom  to  wear  also  a  wide  felt  hat,  turned  up 
at  the  side,  and  decorated  with  a  long  plume,  ravished  from 
the  headgear  of  a  complacent  female  relative,  and  sewed 
there  by  her  hands.  For  the  rest,  ordinary  clothes  sufficed, 
— there  was  not  enough  of  the  assured  fantastic  in  the  tem- 
perament of  the  local  youth  to  countenance  further  deco- 
ration. 

Lee  was  at  a  loss  how  to  obtain  the  requisite  feather, 
unless  he  went  direct  to  Miss  Stafford's  Millinery  Em- 
porium and  bought  it,  and  such  a  proceeding  was  against 
all  tradition,  both  romantic  and  financial.  Mart  saw  his 
quandary  and  forestalled  him. 

"Now  about  a  feather  for  your  hat,"  he  said,  one  evening, 
after  watching  Lee  and  Florrie  in  their  regular  joust  after 
the  small  elusive  rings.  "You  leave  that  to  me.  I'll  go 
round  to  Mrs.  Dan  Fisher's — Rena  Massey  that  was — and 
borrow  you  the  grandest  plume  in  the  state.  That  woman's 
got  more  folderols  and  gee-gaws  and  rigamajigs  than  any 
other  ten  women  in  town  put  together.  She'll  loan  me  one 
and  glad  to  do  it." 


270  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

It  was  as  he  had  said.  Rena,  expanded  into  a  perma- 
nent stoutness  that  did  not  prevent  her  good-nature,  her 
coquettishness,  and  even  some  of  her  prettiness  remaining, 
opened  a  bandbox  of  discarded  trimmings,  and  banteringly 
offered  Mart  his  choice  of  half  a  dozen  feathers. 

"If  'twas  only  for  yourself,  I'd  say  take  the  red  one," 
she  giggled,  "or  this  bright  yellow.  Nothing  was  ever  too 
gay  for  you,  Mart." 

"Yes,  you'd  like  me  to  look  like  a  nigger  parade,  I  reckon. 
I  tell  you  the  young  folks  nowadays  are  all  sobersides  com- 
pared to  what  we  were.  Now — what  do  you  think  about 
that  kind  of  roan-colored  one?" 

"That's  not  roan,  silly — that's  brown.  Well, — that's  a 
real  pretty  feather  and  a  nice  length." 

"Sure  you  can  spare  it?" 

"Anything  to  you." 

"There  you  go,  making  me  wish  you  was  Dan  Fisher's 
widow  'stead  of  his  wife." 

"Oh,  you  horrid  thing  to  say  such  a  thing  about  Dan." 

"You  brought  it  on  yourself." 

Rena's  silver  bangles  clinked  about  her  plump  wrists  as 
she  wrapped  the  feather  in  soft  paper.  She  was  as  keen 
for  fashion  as  ever  she  had  been,  the  additional  surface  she 
had  acquired  to  display  the  styles  did  not  displease  her. 

"Seen  anything  of  your  neighbors  lately — Louellen — or 
any  of  the  family?" 

"Well,  John  Henry  and  I  go  to  prayermeeting  regular 
together,  as  usual." 

"Mart,  you're  a  case.  'Twouldn't  hurt  you  to  go  to 
prayermeeting  now  and  then.  That  reminds  me — I  hear 
Young  Ed  Galloway's  setting  up  to  little  Judy,  Louellen's 
youngest  girl.  I  reckon  John  Henry'll  be  pleased,  seeing 
how  Young  Ed's  turned  a  new  leaf  and  joined  the  church. 
My,  he  was  a  wild  one,  too." 

"No,"  said  Mart,  reflectively.  "He  wasn't  wild,  Rena. 
He  was  dirty.  There's  a  difference." 

Rena's  eyes  brightened  at  the  prospect  of  gossip.     She 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  271 

dropped  her  voice :  "You  mean — that  shantyboat  girl  ?  Dan 
told  me  something  about  it." 

"I  didn't  mean  a  thing, — I  just  said  he  was  dirty,  and  I 
know  it.  That's  all.  Thank  you  for  the  feather,  Rena.  I'll 
bring  it  back  when  the  tournament's  over." 

Again  this  business  of  Young  Ed  Galloway  hanging 
around  Judy !  People  were  beginning  to  talk  about  it  now. 
And  she  was  nearly  sixteen — but  girls  didn't  marry  as  early 
as  they  used  to.  But  what  could  he  do?  If  he  made  a 
move  he'd  just  put  trouble  on  Judy  and  Louellen  both.  A 
man  couldn't  interfere  with  his  neighbor's  family  affairs. 
That  was  as  true  now  as  it  had  been  when  Judy  had  come 
to  tell  him  good-by.  He  realized  that  he  had  not  been  think- 
ing so  acutely  of  Judy  since  young  Lee  had  made  this  com- 
ing tournament  such  an  outstanding  affair.  He  was  vastly 
concerned  that  Lee  should  make  a  good  showing.  Indeed, 
he  was  sure  the  boy  would  win,  though  he  did  not  tell 
him  so. 

Lee  himself  was  confident,  but  fearful,  too.  Strategically 
he  tried  to  conceal  from  Mart  his  anxiety,  his  dependence 
on  this  one  day  for  all  the  status  of  his  future.  But  he 
could  not  help  building  on  it,  seeing  it  the  doorway  to  all 
he  wished  for,  all  he  wanted.  His  hopes  went  up,  up,  up, 
knowing  no  limit  to  their  flight.  Only  now  and  then  was 
he  troubled  by  the  steadying  dart  of  "What  if  I  shouldn't 
win?"  He  must  win — he  must.  He  went  to  sleep  at  night 
with  his  pulses  beating  that  refrain  to  him,  and  woke  to  the 
same  rhythm.  And  all  through  his  slumbers  were  great 
dreams  of  himself  riding — riding — riding — fast  and  straight 
as  no  one  had  ever  ridden  before,  snatching  off  the  pendent 
rings  with  a  debonair  lightness,  acclaimed  by  cheering 
crowds,  and  at  the  last  bringing  the  golden  crown  that  would 
be  the  guerdon  of  the  queen,  proudly,  openly,  to  Judy's  wel- 
coming hands,  her  proud  and  wonderful  smile!  Always 
somewhere  at  the  back  Ed  Galloway,  a  mean  and  defeated 
figure,  slunk  away  into  a  limbo  of  obscurity  whence  he  could 
never  return.  But  he  confided  none  of  this  dream  pageant 


272  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

to  Mart — or  even  to  Judy — in  their  now  most  infrequent 
meetings. 

Only  he  reminded  her  that  she  had  said  he  might  crown 
her  queen — if  he  won.  And  once,  he  almost  betrayed  him- 
self and  the  height  of  his  imaginings,  his  pyramided  hopes, 
in  an  exclamation :  "I'd  never  hold  up  my  head  again  if  I 
don't  win.  I'd  be  ready  to  clear  out  of  the  neighborhood,  go 
off  somewhere,  and  not  come  back  till  I  was  somebody  folks 
couldn't  talk  down." 

"Oh,"  cried  Judy,  startled.  "Don't  go  away,  Lee.  Why, 
what  would  I  do?" 

He  looked  at  her  meaningly.  "You  could  wait  till  I  come 
back,"  he  said.  Then,  desperately:  "You  wouldn't  marry 
Ed  Galloway,  would  you,  Judy?" 

"Mercy — no.  I  tell  you  I  don't  want  ever  to  get  mar- 
ried." She  was  thinking  of  the  eternal  conflict  between  her 
parents,  the  spectacle  of  her  mother's  dreary  existence. 

Lee  let  the  matter  rest.  He  had  no  right  to  say  more. 
Anyway,  she  had  promised  she  wouldn't  marry  Ed  Callo- 
way.  And  anyway  ...  he  was  going  to  win  the  tourna- 
ment. .  .  . 

The  tournament  had  been  put  off  from  early  October 
until  later  because  of  the  continued  unseasonable  heat,  but 
items  in  the  Manor  Democrat  kept  it  alive.  Entries  were 
coming  in.  George  Willis  would  ride  as  Knight  of 
Tuckahoe.  Thomas  Stevens  would  ride  as  Knight  of  Wye 
Mills.  Church  Hill  had  a  representative,  and  two  enter- 
prising youths  would  come  from  Centerville  to  uphold  the 
honor  of  Queen  Anne  County  in  feats  of  horsemanship. 
Later  it  was  announced  that  Judge  Markwood  would  de- 
liver the  Charge  to  the  Knights,  an  occasion  for  flowery 
oratory.  Cicero  Smith  of  N.  had  donated  the  use  of  his 
trotting  track  for  the  occasion — as  every  one  knew  from 
the  first  he  would.  The  editor  of  the  Democrat  urged 
attendance  of  the  tournament  "to  encourage  our  young  men 
in  their  quest  of  chivalry  and  to  show  how  impossible  it  is 
that  this  much-vaunted  new  invention,  the  horseless  car- 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  273 

riage,  can  ever  supersede,  in  usefulness  or  beauty,  that 
favorite  domestic  animal,  equus  caballus.  Let  this  be  our 
challenge  to  the  soulless  inventor  who  would  supplant  our 
noble  steeds  with  noisy,  ill-smelling  machines — let  us  show 
the  everlasting  glories  of  the  horse  and  uphold  the  famous 
standards  of  Southern  horsemanship  in  deeds  of  derring-do 
on  Saturday  P.M.  at  Smith's  Race  Track,  while  youth  and 
beauty  smile  maidenly  approval  on  the  scene." 

Young  Ed  Galloway  read  the  notice  to  Judy,  smiling  with 
his  own  approval,  tickled  with  the  phrases. 

"Your  Pa's  going  to  let  you  go,"  he  added.  "I  asked 
him  if  I  could  take  you.  And  I've  persuaded  Brother  Todd 
to  attend,  because  I  heard  the  Episcopalian  minister  was 
going,  and  I  didn't  think  the  Methodists  ought  to  be  left 
unrepresented,  officially,  I  mean.  Two  preachers  will  lend 
tone  to  the  affair,  and  even  if  it  is  a  trotting  track,  I  don't 
see  that  it  makes  any  difference.  So  the  Reverend  made 
up  his  mind  to  go,  and  he'll  take  Virgie.  I  told  your  Pa 
that,  too." 

"I'm  glad  Virgie's  going,"  said  Judy,  ungratefully. 

Young  Ed  did  not  notice  the  omission  of  her  thanks. 
"I'm  going  to  call  myself  Knight  of  Oak  Hill,  as  you 
thought  would  be  best, — maybe  you  noticed  the  name 
amongst  the  entries." 

"Yes,  I  noticed  it." 

"And  my  little  horse — why,  he  can  pretty  near  take  off 
the  rings  himself.  I'll  bet  you  I  crown  you  Queen  of  Love 
and  Beauty  before  'em  all." 

"I  wish  you'd  leave  me  alone,"  said  Judy,  provoked  to 
sudden  overwhelming,  helpless  anger.  "I  don't  want  to  go 
to  the  old  tournament,  and  I  don't  want  you  crowning  me 
Queen  either.  I  don't  see  what  you  come  round  here  for 
anyway.  You  know  I  don't  like  you  and  don't  want  you. 
You  ought  to  be  ashamed  to  run  after  a  girl  who  don't  like 
you  any  better  than  I  do." 

"I  like  a  spitfire,  that's  what,"  proclaimed  young  Ed.  "I 
don't  give  a  snap  for  a  girl  that's  got  no  spirit,  and  comes 


274  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

honeying  round  a  fellow.  Besides,  you  look  awful  pretty 
when  you're  mad — don't  you  know  that?  I  expect  you  do, 
and  that's  why  you  get  mad  at  me  so  much.  You  just  whet 
up  my  appetite  when  you  fly  out  at  me,  Judy.  Besides,  I 
know  I  got  your  Pa's  blessing."  He  smiled  teasingly,  se- 
curely. More  and  more  Judy's  luscious  youth  appealed  to 
him.  He  was  beginning  to  think  very  surely  now  of  mar- 
rying her.  After  the  tournament — if  he  won — by  crowning 
her  Queen  of  Love  and  Beauty  he  would  serve  notice  of 
his  intentions  publicly.  No  man  crowned  a  girl  in  a  tour- 
nament unless  they  were  engaged  or  meant  to  be. 

"I'll  drive  down  here  for  you  early  Saturday  afternoon, 
and  we'll  go  right  out  to  the  trotting  track.  One  of  my 
hands  is  going  to  bring  my  riding  horse  in  for  me." 

"I'll  ride  in  town  with  Virgie  and  Mr.  Todd,"  said  Judy, 
seeking  a  way  to  escape.  "Then  you  won't  need  to  come 
all  this  way." 

"I  don't  mind  it.  That  nice  long  ride  in  town  and  back 
with  you  is  the  best  part  of  my  day,  barring  the  time  when 
I  hand  you  the  winner's  prize."  He  swaggered  away, 
assured  that  luck  was  with  him,  enjoying  the  sensation  of 
Judy's  futile  rebelliousness.  "She  needs  a  snaffle,  that's- 
what,"  he  told  himself,  and  saw  himself  the  man  to  apply 
it.  A  wife  like  that,  a  good  girl, — "never  a  fellow  before 
me," — who  spiced  her  beauty  and  her  virginity  with  resist- 
ance would  be  something  worth  having  in  the  way  of 
women.  Being  so  young,  so  inexperienced,  he  could  soon 
break  her  to  subserviency.  More  than  ever  he  realized  how 
wise  he  had  been  to  cut  away  from  his  other  associations, 
and  join  the  church,  to  go  in  for  peace  by  way  of  holiness. 
He  had  been  skeptical  about  such  benefits  at  first,  but  since 
he'd  found  Judy  to  play  with,  he  saw,  as  never  before,  how 
well  it  pays  to  be  good. 


CHAPTER  NINE 

THE  trotting  track  of  Cicero  Smith  of  N.  was  an  in- 
formal and  little  used  field,  roughly  laid  out  with  a  half- 
mile  circular  course;  and  further  embellished  by  a  few 
tumbling  sheds  for  the  horses,  an  unroofed  ramshackle 
grandstand,  and  a  judges'  pagoda,  not  much  larger  or  more 
important  than  a  dirty  gumdrop. 

That  was  all  there  was  of  it,  but  it  was  happily  located 
only  a  quarter  of  a  mile  or  so  from  Manor,  which  made  it 
easily  accessible  to  the  town,  and  those  town  bloods  who 
wished  to  try  their  horses'  speed.  Occasionally  minor  races 
were  held  there,  real  races  of  a  sort,  preliminary  to  the 
larger  races  of  the  county  fairs.  But  for  the  most  part  it 
was  a  desolate,  deserted  place,  edged  with  scrubby  pine,  and 
a  lesser  close  growth  of  beggar's  lice,  Spanish  needle  and 
the  more  potent,  vigorous  sand-burr. 

Nevertheless  it  was  a  race  track,  and  it  could  be  used  for 
tournaments,  so  the  row  of  posts,  three  of  them,  were  set 
up  there,  and  a  course  agreed  on  and  laid  out — much  devas- 
tation ensuing  thereby  to  the  summer's  growth  of  rank 
weeds. 

The  entries  had  increased  at  a  high  pace.  So  much  so 
it  was  deemed  advisable  to  omit  the  usual  preliminary  "trial 
ride"  of  each  contestant. 

"Folks  can't  stay  out  here  all  night,"  quoth  Cicero  Smith 
of  N.,  facetiously,  who  was  master  of  ceremonies,  and  a 
jocund  soul,  delighting  in  his  semi-public  character.  "We'll 
have  to  give  the  lads  three  rides  each,  and  let  it  go  at  that." 

It  was  so  arranged.  Cicero  Smith  would  be  one  of  the 
judges,  and  Doctor  Tithelow  another.  Luther  Gadd,  the 
popular  county  clerk,  a  debonair  middle-aged  man  whose 
twin  appetites  for  sport  and  good  living  ate  up  his  income 
to  the  last  penny,  without  a  care  for  the  morrow,  was  the 

275 


276  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

third  judge,  and  these  three  would  see  that  all  the  require- 
ments of  speed  and  distance  were  carried  out.  A  committee 
of  ladies  would  take  care  to  ravish  the  best  of  the  town 
and  country  gardens  for  the  late  chrysanthemums  and  orna- 
mental grasses  to  form  special  winners'  trophies, — flat 
bouquets  stiffly  backed  with  green  fans  of  arbor  vitae. 
There  was  high  excitement  when  it  was  learned  that  the 
Ladies  Guild  of  the  Episcopalians  proposed  to  set  up  a  booth 
and  serve  hot  coffee,  sandwiches  and  fried  oysters,  for  the 
benefit  of  their  organization.  A  ripple  of  talk  arose  and 
the  Methodist  ladies  suggested  that  their  Ladies  Aid  should 
run  an  opposition  booth,  but  in  the  end  they  decided  against 
it.  "It'll  be  a  lot  of  work,"  quoth  Miss  Becca  Simpson 
crisply.  "Let  the  Episcopalians  do  it.  They  need  the  money 
worse'n  we  do.  Besides,  suppose  it  should  rain  and  all  that 
food  had  been  fixed  beforehand."  The  tag  of  that  speech 
carried  the  decision. 

But  the  day  was  clear,  with  a  cool  West  wind,  but  a 
warm  autumn  sun  to  gild  and  glamour  the  dinginess  of  the 
racetrack,  to  fling  a  melting  blue  haze  through  the  sparse 
pine  woods  about  it,  a  day  to  lift  the  heart  to  laughter,  to 
irresponsibility,  a  day  subtly  tuned  to  festivity.  It  would 
have  been  impossible  to  work  on  such  a  day. 

The  crowd  gathered  early.  In  the  morning  people  rode 
over  and  drove  over  from  Queen  Anne  and  Kent  Counties, 
up  from  Talbot,  even  from  Dorchester.  They  hunted  up 
old  friends  and  distant  relatives,  and  stayed  to  dinner,  and 
those  who  had  no  claim  on  private  hospitality  ate  bounti- 
fully at  the  hotel.  The  country  people  drove  in,  parked 
their  buggies  and  surreys  and  dearborns  at  the  racetrack, 
brought  out  huge  baskets  of  lunch  and  enjoyed  their  dinner 
in  the  open.  The  enterprising  Episcopalian  ladies,  antici- 
pating this,  were  on  the  ground  early  with  their  booth  to 
supplement  such  cold  viands  by  their  hot  food  and  drink. 
Two  colored  women  fried  oysters  over  an  open  fire,  in  a 
huge  kettle  of  fat,  and  a  white-coated  colored  man  served 
them,  and  with  them  beaten  biscuit  and  huge  tin  cups  of 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  277 

coffee,  while  the  President  and  Secretary  of  the  Guild  di- 
rected, assisted  and  received  the  money. 

Early  in  the  afternoon,  as  soon  as  the  mid-day  dinner 
was  over,  the  townsfolk  and  their  guests  came  trooping 
leisurely  out  to  the  track.  Many  of  them  drove  and  chose 
to  watch  the  tournament  from  their  vehicles  rather  than 
from  the  rickety  heights  of  the  grandstand.  The  younger 
faction,  however,  congregated  on  the  grandstand  and  there 
was  a  distinct  line  of  cleavage  between  town  and  country 
youth.  The  town  girls,  assured  as  to  style  and  charm, 
chattered,  visited  round  amongst  their  various  groups,  dis- 
playing an  ostentatious  sparkle  and  sociability,  while  the 
country  girls  gathered  closely  together  and  watched,  half 
envious,  half  scorning.  They  would  not  have  confessed 
that  they  longed  to  achieve  the  easy,  voluble  flutter  and 
swing  of  the  town  girls,  but  their  secret  hearts  were  eaten 
with  such  longing. 

The  men  mostly  stayed  down  near  the  track,  pretending 
indifference,  talking  desultorily  of  crops  and  local  politics. 
Many  of  them  went  to  join  their  women  when  the  hour  for 
the  beginning  of  the  tournament  drew  near,  only  the  half- 
tamed  spirits  remaining  in  masculine  solidarity. 

Virgie  and  Judy,  self-conscious  in  new  dresses  and  hats, 
sat  on  the  grandstand  between  the  town  and  country  fac- 
tions, belonging  to  the  country  side  by  rights,  but  because 
of  the  companionship  of  the  Reverend  Todd  feeling  that 
they  must  acknowledge  him  as  a  town  affiliation,  for,  as 
soon  as  Virgie  and  he  were  married,  they  would  be  towns- 
people. The  Episcopalian  minister,  an  urbane  white-haired 
little  old  gentleman,  sat  with  his  wife  and  two  daughters 
in  the  midst  of  the  town  crowd. 

Mart  Bladen  had  ridden  in  early,  with  Lee,  and  they  had 
had  dinner  at  the  Hotel,  and  come  out  together  to  the  track, 
keen-edged  with  excitement,  but  speaking  little.  Mart  now 
and  then  ventured  something  confident,  half-boastful,  varied 
with  superfluous  words  of  caution  as  to  horsemanship  in 
a  crowd,  and  the  like.  Lee  hardly  heard  him.  He  was 


278  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

centered,  intent,  his  eyes  glittered  and  his  pulses  pounded. 
He  sat  very  straight  in  the  saddle,  and  pulled  his  wide  hat 
down  to  shadow  his  face,  lest  his  eagerness  be  betrayed  to 
the  crowd.  When  it  was  time  for  him  to  join  the  riders 
Mart  had  managed  an  easy  "Luck!"  and  left  him.  Then 
the  older  man  had  gone  to  the  grandstand  and  presently 
spied  Judy.  A  reconnoitering  look  told  him  that  John 
Henry  was  not  near,  so  he  went  over  to  them,  spoke  to  the 
young  minister,  pinched  Virgie's  cheek,  and  settled  his 
bulky  weight  beside  Judy. 

"If  this  plaguey  plank  seat  holds,"  he  told  her,  "I  figure 
I'm  as  safe  here  as  anywhere.  Ain't  it  a  nice  day !  Honey, 
you  get  that  last  little  poke  o'  candy?" 

"Oh,  yes,  Unc'  Mart.  My,  they  were  so  good.  You  get 
my  note?" 

"Yes,  ma'am.  Who  brought  you  in?  The  young  rev- 
erend?" 

A  shadow  fell  across  Judy's  face.  "That  Young  Ed  Cal- 
loway  brought  me.  He's  riding.  He  says  he's  going  to 
win  the  prize  and  crown  me  queen.  I  don't  wish  anybody 
any  bad  luck,  but,  oh,  if  something  should  happen  to  him, 
I'd  downright  laugh,  indeed  I  would." 

"You  rest  easy  about  his  crowning  you.  He's  not  got  a 
chance  in  the  world  of  winning.  There's  a  dozen  boys  out 
there  that's  better  with  a  horse  than  he  is." 

"Unc'  Mart,"  she  whispered,  lest  Virgie  should  hear. 
"D'you  think  Lee's  going  to  win?" 

"I  figure  he's  got  a  right  good  chance,"  Mart  returned 
cautiously.  "But  there's  a  heap  of  smart  riders  here  to- 
day, from  all  around.  Still,  I  figure  Lee's  got  a  chance. 
By  jolly,  I  wish  they'd  start  up." 

Presently  came  a  little  restless  wave  of  expectancy,  a 
ripple  of  turned  heads,  and  exclamations :  "They're  coming ! 
They're  coming!"  And  in  the  sunlight,  at  full  gallop,  the 
massed  knights  drove  down  the  track  in  rough  troop  for- 
mation, pulling  up  their  horses  with  a  tremendous  effect, 
while  the  crowd  clapped  and  cheered.  As  the  applause  died 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  279 

i 

away  Judge  Mark  wood's  massive  figure  rose  in  the  front 
of  the  stand,  frock-coated,  heavy- jowled,  deep-eyed,  silver- 
haired.  In  orotund  flowery  periods  he  gave  a  short,  ringing 
Charge  to  the  Knights,  while  the  restless  horses  sidled  and 
danced  and  pawed  the  ground,  resenting  such  close  contact 
with  so  many  strangers  of  their  kind,  and  their  riders  had 
all  they  could  do  to  keep  them  in  hand,  what  with  ribbons 
and  plumed  hats  to  manage  as  well. 

Cicero  Smith,  Doctor  Tithelow  and  Mr.  Gadd  took  their 
places  in  the  judges'  stand.  The  riders  galloped  off  to  the 
end  of  the  course  to  get  their  lances,  and  await  their  turns. 
A  bell  rang.  The  tournament  had  begun. 

Oscar  Gooden,  the  auctioneer,  was  the  marshal  and,  in 
a  voice  of  mighty  power,  he  bawled  out  the  name  of  the 
first  rider. 

"Jeems  Aaron  Harbison — Knight  of  Lloyd's  Regulation." 

Thundering  down  the  line  of  gibbet-like  posts  came  young 
Jeems  Aaron,  lying  low  on  his  horse's  neck,  his  reins  loose, 
guiding  his  steed  with  leg-pressure  according  to  the  best 
local  precepts  of  riding,  his  lance  a  dart  of  determination, 
his  plume  a  streaming,  defiant  pennon,  his  red  sash  a  chal- 
lenge. Jeems  Aaron  was  good.  He  won  every  ring,  and 
trotted  back  to  the  music  of  cheers. 

"If  all  of  'em  do  as  well  as  that  they'll  have  to  ride  off 
a  lot  of  ties  at  the  end,"  said  Mart,  nervously.  He  was 
looking  out  for  Lee,  impatient  until  he  should  come.  He 
was  surprised  to  feel  how  hot  and  cold  his  hands  were 
going. 

Helpers  ran  out  and  put  new  rings  in  place.  Again  Oscar 
Gooden  lifted  his  voice: 

"Albert  Stell— Knight  of  Cordova." 

Albert  was  not  so  clever  as  his  predecessor.  He  had  to 
retire  with  only  two  rings  dangling  on  his  lance,  and  the 
work  of  the  helpers  was  accordingly  shortened. 

Now  they  came  fast.  "Knight  of  Tuckahoe !  Knight  of 
Betterton!  Knight  of  Goldsboro!  Knight  of  Potters 
Landing !" 


280  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

A  waggish  country  lad  brought  a  laugh  by  having  him- 
self announced  "Knight  of  the  Plow  and  Harrow,"  and 
rode  a  lumbering  old  farm-horse,  whose  clumsy  gait  sent 
the  spectators  into  shouts  of  joy.  Nevertheless,  when  the 
boy  retired  with  two  rings,  he  was  cheered  and  clapped 
as  none  of  his  predecessors  had  been.  He  grinned  his 
acknowledgment  and  ducked  a  roguish  red  head. 

Young  Ed  Galloway  was  called,  and  won  two  rings.  His 
horse  was  a  piece  of  prancing  satin,  clean-limbed,  true-bred, 
— "Got  lots  more  sense'n  Young  Ed  himself,"  growled  Mart 
into  Judy's  ear. 

"Knight  of  Plaindealing,"  Oscar  Gooden's  voice  was  a 
clarion  of  triumph  to  the  two  in  the  grandstand.  They 
leaned,  Judy  clutching  Mart's  arm,  forgetful  of  who  might 
see,  breathless,  projecting  their  anxiety,  their  hope  for  him, 
to  bring  him  whirling  down  the  line  of  posts,  to  steady  his 
lance  for  the  rings.  .  .  .  He  bent  his  young  body,  so  that 
he  and  the  horse  were  one  .  .  .  Florrie  .  .  .  more  than 
ready  for  the  word,  ran  straight  and  at  the  top  of  her 
pace.  .  .  . 

"By  Judas,  he  got  'em  all  three,"  said  Mart.  "What 
did  I  tell  you!" 

He  had  told  her  nothing,  but  that  made  no  difference. 
Voices  near  them,  not  unfriendly,  said,  "Who  was  that?" 
And  other  voices  answered,  "Joe  Kemp's  boy — don't  you 
know?"  and  Mart  glanced  round  at  the  speakers  in  a  sort 
of  vicarious  paternal  pride,  flinging  one  leg  over  the  other, 
leaning  back  with  perilous  negligence  on  the  wavering 
boards.  "Well  begun  is  half  done,"  he  quoted  sagely. 
"I'm  as  wrought  up  as  if  I  was  doing  it  myself,  darned 
if'm  not.  Lee's  one  ring  ahead  on  Young  Ed  on  the  first 
round,  Judy.  Notice  that?" 

They  did  not  watch  the  next  contestants,  so  much  there 
was  to  talk  about,  to  tell  each  other  in  what  Lee  had  done. 
Judy's  cheeks  had  mounted  flaming  color. 

"Oh,  he  will  win,  Unc'  Mart,  he  will,  I  know  it,"  she 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  281 

kept  saying,  over  and  over  again.  Virgie  pinched  her  on 
the  arm  to  make  her  keep  quiet. 

"People  are  looking  at  you,"  whispered  Virgie  primly. 

"He's  got  a  likely  chance — a  likely  chance,"  was  all  Mart 
could  babble  in  reply.  But  he  could  not  sit  still.  "Reckon 
I'll  go  down  amongst  the  riders  before  his  turn  comes 
again,"  he  said  to  Judy.  "I'll  just  say  a  steadying  word 
or  two  to  'im.  He'll  be  pret'  near  off  his  head,  I  shouldn't 
wonder." 

The  round  began  again — the  riders  past  all  smiling.  They 
were  in  earnest  now.  The  redoubtable  Jeems  Aaron  let 
his  lance  waver  for  an  unlucky  second  and  missed  two  of 
the  rings.  The  droll  Knight  of  the  Plow  and  Harrow 
scored  one  and  missed  two,  and  some  of  those  who  had 
made  poor  scores  on  the  first  round  redeemed  themselves 
now.  Young  Ed  Galloway  made  a  perfect  score. 

And  then  again  came  Lee.  .  .  .  He,  too,  wavered,  missed 
one.  His  second  score  was  two.  Still,  so  far  he  was  tied 
with  the  best,  all  save  one  slender  dark  youth  from  Queen 
Anne  County,  who  won  every  ring  on  both  rounds  and  led 
them  all.  He  was  cheered  by  a  Queen  Anne  faction,  but 
louder  voices  besought  the  native  sons  not  to  be  beaten 
by  an  outsider. 

"Come  on,  boys — show  'em  what  home  folks  can  do," 
rose  a  shrill  far-reaching  cry  from  a  little  man  in  a  plaid 
great-coat  and  dingy  cap,  out  in  front  of  the  grandstand. 
And  the  crowd  caught  and  echoed  the  cry.  "Come  on — 
home  folks !"  The  colored  man  who  had  served  fried 
oysters  faithfully  to  the  hungry  crowd  climbed  on  a  chair 
and  waved  his  white  jacket.  "Home  boys — come  a-run- 
nin',"  he  begged,  and  the  crowd  laughed  and  cheered  him. 

On  the  grandstand  every  one  was  standing,  shifting, 
swaying,  and  the  aged  timbers  beneath  them  creaked  warn- 
ingly,  but  they  held,  so  no  one  heeded. 

"Come  on !   Come  on  !    Come  a-runnin' — Home  Folks — " 

The   shouting   and   the  press   worried   and    fretted  the 


282  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

horses — they  were  skittish,  hard  to  manage.  They  did  not 
understand.  They  were  not  trained  to  this  sort  of  thing, 
and  they  hated  it.  They  reared  and  shied,  and  kicked.  The 
Knight  of  Betterton  was  thrown  and  his  plume  broken  and 
rolled  in  the  dirt.  He  got  up,  limping  and  white,  clutching 
a  smashed  collar  bone.  Some  one  caught  his  horse  and 
helped  him  to  friends.  He  was  out  of  the  third  round. 

"Hustle  'em  up,  Oscar,"  shouted  Luther  Gadd.  "Run 
'em  off  fast's  you  can,  or  else  we'll  have  more  accidents. 
The  devil's  in  the  horses." 

Oscar  hustled  'em.  His  big  voice  boomed  and  bellowed. 
He  hardly  gave  his  helpers  enough  time  to  put  the  new 
rings  back  in  place — they  had  to  run  to  get  out  of  the 
way.  But  Oscar  kept  on  hustling  'em. 

Only  the  youths  who  had  kept  their  heads  and  their 
horses  calm  scored  on  this  round.  Jeems  Aaron  was  a 
prey  to  the  prevalent  madness,  and  took  only  one  ring. 
Other  boys  who  had  scored  well  before  missed  every  ring. 
The  horse  of  the  Knight  of  Queen  Anne  was  determined 
to  rear  at  every  post,  and  had  to  be  fought  the  whole  way, 
so  that  his  rider  won  only  two  rings.  Still,  his  score  was 
good.  Young  Ed's  thoroughbred  showed  her  mettle  and 
ran  true  once  more.  Her  master  won  three  rings,  tying 
with  the  Queen  Anne  boy. 

Judy  waited,  hands  clenched.  She  thought  she  would  die 
of  the  suspense.  She  did  not  see  how  she  could  live  until 
it  was  over.  Virgie's  polite  little  comments  and  the  Rev- 
erend Todd's  answers  had  no  part  in  her  consciousness. 
She  stood  up  with  the  others  and  waved  and  shouted.  Oh 
.  .  .  would  Lee  never  ride  again  ?  .  .  .  Was  he  never  com- 


ing 


She  saw  Mart  climbing  up  through  the  crowd  toward 
her.  "What  is  it?"  she  cried  out  to  him.  "Why  don't  he 
come?"  And  then  she  knew  by  Mart's  face  that  something 
had  happened. 

"He  ain't  going  to  ride  the  third  time,  Judy,"  he  said. 
"That  old  plow  horse  got  rampaging  round  and  lashed  out 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  283 

and  caught  Florrie  square  on  the  hock  and  she's  gone  dead 
lame.  I  think  she'd  stand  up  to  one  more  round,  and  I 
told  him  to  go  ahead,  but  he  won't  do  it.  It's  all  up."  He 
made  a  gesture  of  finality. 

It  was  unbelievable  tragedy.  "He's  not  going  to  ride 
again?  He's  lost?"  asked  Judy.  "Oh,  Unc'  Mart.  .  .  ." 
She  could  not  believe  it. 

"Ain't  it  the  damnedest  luck !  Didn't  even  get  a  chance. 
I  give  that  young  red-head  a  piece  of  my  mind — crazy  kids 
like  him  oughtn't  to  be  allowed  on  a  horse.  But  that  wasn't 
no  good.  By  Judas,  I'd  ruther've  lost  every  horse  I  had  in 
the  stable  than  have  this  happen.  I  went  over  and  asked 
Doc  Tithelow  if  he  couldn't  borrow  a  horse  for  the  last 
round,  but  it's  against  the  rules.  All  three  rounds  on  the 
one  horse."  He  shook  his  head,  sunk  in  despair. 

"But  where's  Lee  gone  to,  then?"  asked  Judy,  anguished. 

"He's  back  there  in  the  stable  shed,  trying  to  fix  up 
Florrie.  She's  right  bad  cut.  I  s'pose  it  wouldn't've  been 
right  to've  ridden  her  again,  but  yet.  ...  I  told  him  to  go 
ahead.  He  wouldn't  hear  to  it.  Just  set  his  mouth,  and 
jdidn't  answer  me." 

The  turbulent  crowd  was  seething,  shouting  all  about 
them,  for  Oscar  was  still  hustling  'em.  And  now  a  mightier, 
more  intense  roar  drew  them  from  their  depths.  "What 
is  it?"  asked  Mart,  craning  over  the  crowd. 

The  third  round  had  been  finished,  and  the  four  who  had 
tied  for  high  score  were  riding  it  off.  Queen  Anne's  horse, 
still  fractious,  lost  him  the  prize.  Oscar's  voice  quieted  the 
surrounding  roar,  dominated  it. 

"Knight  of  Tuckahoe — one  on  the  Finals!  Knight  of 
Wye  Mills — one  on  the  Finals !  Young  Ed  Galloway — two 
on  the  Finals — and  WINNER!" 

"Unc'  Mart,  take  me  home — take  me  home,  will  you? 
Before  he  finds  me  out  and  crowns  me?"     Judy  clutched 
Mart  Bladen's  arm  again,  now  in  an  agony  of  appeal, 
won't  stand  it — I  won't.     If  he  tries  to  hand  me  that  old 
bunch  of  flowers  I'll — I'll  throw  it  right  smack  in  his  face. 


284  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

Take  me  home.  .  .  .  Please,  Unc'  Mart.  .  .  .  Please.  .  .  ." 
Mart  stared  down  at  her,  the  old-time  light  of  deviltry 

lighting  in  his  eyes.     "By  God,  Judy,  I'll  do  it.     Here — 

quick.  .  .  ." 

They  were  gone  before  Virgie  and  the  Reverend  Todd 

had  missed  them. 


CHAPTER  TEN 

"I  SENT  a  boy  out  to  the  track  with  word  for  Lee  to  ride 
my  horse  home,"  said  Mart  heavily.  "Told  him  to  leave 
Florrie  at  Jack  Evitt's — he's  good  as  any  vet'rinary  I  ever 
saw.  He'll  take  good  care  of  her." 

The  two  were  riding  home  in  a  hired  buggy,  dreary  with 
disappointment.  Judy  was  trying  not  to  cry,  but  tears  she 
could  not  control  welled  up  in  her  eyes  and  she  had  to 
keep  winking  them  away.  Now  and  then  they  brimmed 
over. 

"D'you  think  Florrie's  lamed  bad  ?"  she  asked. 

"I  don't  know,  and  blamed  if  I  care.  I'd've  been  willing 
to  lame  every  horse  in  my  stable  to  have  the  boy  win.  And 
he  would've  won,  too,  if  he'd  had  a  chance.  He  was  just 
euchred  out  of  it  by  hard  luck.  He  can  ride  Ed  Galloway 
to  a  standstill,  any  day,  give  him  a  sound  horse." 

At  the  name  of  Ed  Galloway,  Judy  shivered.  "I'll  bet 
he  was  mad  when  he  didn't  find  me.  But  I  couldn't've 
stood  that.  I  s'pose  he'll  tell  Pa." 

For  the  first  time  Mart  roused  himself  to  see  the  folly 
of  this  precipitate  retreat,  the  possibilities  of  unhappiness 
to  Judy.  "Look  here,  Judy — I'm  as  thick  as  a  mule.  We 
oughtn't  to've  come  away  like  this.  What'll  Virgie  do? 
She'll  be  looking  for  you — she'll  be  anxious.  It'll  probably 
start  a  regular  towse.  You'll  have  to  say  you  got  sick  or 
something." 

Judy  shook  her  head.  She,  too,  was  now  looking  ahead. 
"Pa  won't  believe  me.  He — well,  I  don't  know  what  he 
will  do,  Unc'  Mart.  But  I  don't  care.  There's  some  things 
I  can  stand,  and  some  I  can't.  For  all  Ma  says  I  might 
as  well  fight  it  out  with  him  as  let  him  make  me  do  the 
things  I  hate.  Only  ...  I  don't  know.  .  .  ."  She  was 
groping.  Revolt  was  hard  for  her,  she  knew  her  own  de- 

285 


286  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

pendence,   her   own    solitude.     "I   wish   I   had   told    Sis, 
though." 

"Let's  go  back — maybe  we'll  meet  'em  on  the  way." 

"We  might  meet  Ed  Galloway  on  the  way,  too." 

"I  reckon  I  can  deal  with  Ed.  What  say,  Judy?  Shan't 
we  turn  round  and  go  back?  If  you  come  home  with  Virgie 
and  her  beau,  the  Deacon  won't  have  any  handle  against 
you."  Mart  too  was  in  the  maze  of  uncertainty.  To  ex- 
pose Judy  to  any  more  of  John  Henry's  malicious  hatred 
was  a  culminating  stroke  of  the  day's  disasters.  He  felt 
the  need  of  caution,  subterfuge,  but  was  helpless  to  devise 
them,  so  foreign  were  they  to  his  use.  The  unfairness  of 
it  all,  his  own  helplessness,  made  him  falter.  He  looked 
at  her  almost  timidly,  and  with  the  somber  bitterness  that 
her  division  from  him  always  roused  in  him. 

"I  reckon  we  better  go  back,  hey?" 

He  turned  the  buggy  without  more  ado,  and  they  drove 
rapidly  back  toward  town.  Soon  they  began  to  meet  the 
home-comers  from  the  tournament,  and  the  road  grew  thick 
with  dust-clouds.  At  last,  as  he  had  supposed,  they  met 
Virgie  and  the  minister,  distracted,  deep  in  anxiety. 

Virgie  exclaimed  and  flung  out  her  hands  to  them.  "Oh, 
Judy — what  became  of  you — where've  you  been?  ...  I 
been  almost  crazy.  .  .  ." 

Mart  helped  Judy  out  of  the  buggy  and  in  with  the  other 
two. 

"She  was  feeling  right  poorly,"  he  lied  carelessly,  "and 
1  started  taking  her  home,  and  then  it  just  struck  me  about 
you,  Virgie,  and  how  you'd  take  on— don't  know  why  I 
didn't  think  of  it  at  first — but  I'm  a  plumb  dolt  sometimes 
— so  we  come  on  back  to  find  you.  You  better  take  her 
home  and  get  her  to  bed — she's  right  wrought  up  and 
upset." 

"You  poor  child!"  Virgie  put  a  sympathetic  arm  around 
her.  "She  looks  all  to  pieces — and  I'm  most  so  myself — 
what  with  Ed  Galloway  looking  for  her,  and  carrying  on 
like  mad, — mercy,  what  a  time, — and  all  the  folks  talking, 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  287 

and  me  not  knowing.  ...  I  declare  I  didn't  know  if  I  was 
en  my  head  or  my  heels.  .  .  ." 

"It  was  fortunate  we  met  you,  Mr.  Bladen,"  added  the 
Reverend  Todd,  precisely.  "Every  one  was  highly  con- 
cerned." 

"I  reckon  so.  ...  I  reckon  so  ...  yes  .  .  .  highly  con- 
cerned. ...  I  was  myself.  These  chills — or  maybe  it's  a 
touch  of  malaria — they  come  on  so  sudden  and  violent. 
Never  mind,  Judy.  .  .  .  You're  all  right  now." 

She  had  dropped  against  her  sister's  shoulder,  but  now, 
as  he  leaned  for  her  over  the  wheel  to  take  her  hand,  she 
opened  her  eyes,  as  blue  as  his  own,  and  looked  all  her 
helplessness,  all  her  forlornness,  all  her  fear,  silently 
through  to  him.  Her  gaze  did  not  accuse,  it  did  not  ap- 
peal. It  only  told  him  that  she  was  a  child,  and  miserable, 
and  alone,  and  that  with  his  relinquishment  of  her,  she  had 
no  protection,  no  help.  "What  am  I  going  to  do  ?"  her  eyes 
asked  him.  And  he  had  no  answer. 

He  stood  by  the  roadside  and  watched  the  buggy  drive 
out  of  sight  before  he  continued  his  way  back  to  town. 
He  was  engulfed  in  unhappiness.  "If  I  only  dared  take  her 
and  do  for  her,"  he  thought.  "If  I  only  dared  say.  .  .  .  But 
it  would  be  the  worst  thing  that  could  happen  to  her.  And 
to  Louellen.  And  I  got  to  send  her  back  to  John  Henry. 
.  .  .  Under  his  roof.  .  .  ." 

He  had  forgotten  Lee  as  completely  as  he  had  been  con- 
cerned with  him  before.  Not  until  he  got  back  to  town 
did  he  remember.  He  took  back  the  team  he  had  hired 
to  the  livery,  and  went  mechanically  around  to  the  Evitts' 
stable.  The  streets  were  still  filled  with  people,  and  there 
was  a  buzz  and  rustle  of  comment  which  he  could  not 
escape.  He  heard  the  story  half  a  dozen  times  within  two 
squares — how  Young  Ed,  the  winner  of  the  tournament, 
had  been  awarded  the  prize,  but  when  he  sought  the  girl 
he  meant  to  honor,  she  was  gone,  vanished,  utterly  disap- 
peared. How  Young  Ed  had  become  first  bewildered,  then 
angry,  made  a  show  of  himself. 


288  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

".  .  .  Slammed  the  crown  and  the  flowers  on  the  ground 
and  put  his  foot  on  'em  and  swore  like  a  trooper.  Said 
if  he  couldn't  crown  the  girl  he  wanted  there  shouldn't  be 
no  Queen  .  .  ."  guffawed  one  diverted  gossip. 

"Judge  Markwood  gave  it  to  him  good  and  hot,  though," 
chimed  in  another.  "Shut  him  up,  and  made  everybody  sit 
down,  and  awarded  the  first  prize  to  Tom  Stevens,  Knight 
of  Wye  Mills — told  Young  Ed  his  actions  was  a  disgrace 
to  the  county,  he  did,  cursing  before  ladies,  and  carrying 
on  so.  Never  heard  the  old  Judge  come  out  so  strong. 
So  George  he  crowned  Nettie  Percy  from  over  Wye  way 
the  Queen.  .  .  ." 

"What  become  of  Young  Ed?"  asked  Mart,  interested  in 
spite  of  his  preoccupation. 

"He  flung  off  in  a  pet.  Everybody  laughing  at  him — say 
— it'll  be  many  a  long  day  before  he'll  live  that  story  down. 
And  the  joke  of  it  was  the  girl  who  give  him  the  slip's 
just  a  little  young  thing,  John  Henry  Hyde's  youngest — ' 
you  must  know  her,  Mart — John  Henry's  your  neighbor — 
pretty  little  thing  she  is,  too,  nothing  but  a  child.  She's 
a  spunky  young  one,  to  trick  Young  Ed  like  that.  And  her 
Pa's  on  Young  Ed's  side,  they  tell  me,  too." 

"I  tell  you  one  thing,"  offered  another  pleased  com- 
mentator, "this'll  cost  Judge  Markwood  old  Billy  Galloway's 
support  in  the  campaign  this  fall,  sure's  the  world." 

"It  won't  do  him  any  real  hurt,"  said  another.  "Old  Billy 
Galloway  can't  help  the  Judge  much,  one  way  or  t'other. 
The  Judge  is  too  solid  for  him." 

Mart  went  on,  turned  down  an  alley,  found  the  Evitts' 
stable,  all  this  gossip  whirling  in  his  head  like  bees  swarm- 
ing. Lee  was  coming  from  the  door,  a  new  Lee,  older, 
graver,  aged  out  of  boyhood,  transmuted  definitely  into  a 
man  grown. 

"You  got  the  word  I  sent?"  asked  Mart. 

"Yes,  sir.  Mr.  Evitts  says  Florrie'll  be  all  right.  He 
don't  think  she  ought  to  be  left  to  stiffen  up,  though.  He 
said  I'd  better  ride  her  out  to  your  place  to-night.  I 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  289 

thought  I'd  borrow  a  horse  to  ride  and  lead  her.  I  hate 
to,  though,  it  hurts  her  so  to  walk."  He  spoke  as  a  mature 
man,  not  asking  for  Mart's  decision.  "Mr.  Evitts  said  he'd 
lend  me  his  mare.  I  was  just  putting  the  saddle  on  her." 

"All  right,"  said  Mart.  "I'll  go  and  get  Chloe,  and  meet 
you  out  in  front  of  the  Court-house." 

It  was  dusk  when  they  started  from  town,  slowly,  ac- 
commodating their  pace  to  that  of  the  limping,  drooping 
Florrie.  Mart  sent  sidelong  glances  at  the  boy  beside  him. 

"No  use  feeling  down  in  the  mouth,"  he  said,  affecting 
a  cheerfulness  of  his  own.  "You'd've  won,  sure's  shoot- 
ing, if  you  hadn't  had  hard  luck.  It  was  all  that  pesky  red- 
headed kid's  fault." 

Lee  did  not  answer.    Mart  tried  again. 

"Anyway,  'twan't  no  satisfaction  to  Young  Ed,  winning, 
if  all  I  hear's  true."  He  told  the  story  of  Judy's  evasion 
of  him,  and  the  tale  he  had  heard  of  Young  Ed's  anger 
and  Judge  Markwood's  rebuke.  "So  you  see,  might've  been 
a  sight  worse,"  he  concluded. 

At  last  Lee  burst  from  the  fastness  of  his  own  concen- 
trated thought.  "It's  not  any  use,  Mr.  Bladen.  'Twasn't 
just  luck.  I  was  careless — I  ought  to've  watched  out  better 
and  kept  away  from  that  old  horse  when  it  got  to  cutting 
up.  It  was  my  fault.  And  it  just  shows  me  one  thing — 
'tain't  no  use  for  me  to  stick  around  here  any  longer.  I 
meant  to  set  myself  up  as  somebody  if  Fd've  won.  I 
thought  people  would  see  then  that  I  was  some  account  and 
could  do  as  well  as  the  next  one.  But  now,  I'm  right  where 
I  was  before,  and  that's  nowhere.  I  figure  I'd  better  get 
away — clean  away,  go  clear  out  of  the  state,  out  West, 
maybe,  and  make  my  way  where  nobody  knows  me.  I'm 
not  so  dumb  but  I  could,  I  reckon." 

"But  look  here,  boy,"  expostulated  Mart,  surprised, 
chagrined.  "I  don't  want  you  to  leave  me.  You  and  me 
get  along  fine.  I  like  to  have  you  round  the  house — " 

"So  long's  I'm  here  I'm  just  somebody  folks  thinks  you're 
kind  to,"  said  Lee,  with  bitterness.  "I'm  not  nobody  of 


290  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

myself.  I  want  to  be  somebody  where  people  don't  know 
about  my — about  my  kin,  and  mark  me  with  it.  You  been 
mighty  kind  to  me,  Mr.  Bladen,  and  maybe  I'm  not  grateful, 
the  Lord  knows,  but  what  chance've  I  got  around  here, 
honest?  You  know,  just  as  well  as  I  do.  I'd  set  my  heart 
on  to-day,  and  it  turned  into  nothing.  No,  sir,  I'm  a-going 
to  get  out,  to  get  clear  away." 

Mart  felt  depths  he  must  not  penetrate,  reserves  he  must 
not  probe.  "Well,  if  you're  set  on  it — a  man  can't  be  much 
different  or  do  much  different  than  he  feels,  I  say.  So 
maybe  it'd  be  for  the  best." 

Lee's  disappointment,  his  defeat,  the  annihilation  of  his 
hopes  and  plans,  drove  him  into  open  confidence.  "And 
look  here,  Mr.  Bladen.  There's  Judy.  Judy  Hyde.  I 
reckon  you  can  see  how  I  feel  towards  her.  But  what 
chance  I  got?  John  Henry  Hyde'd  run  me  off  the  place 
with  a  shot  gun  if  I  went  up  there  open,  and  I've  had  to 
sneak  around  like  I  was  a  skunk  stealing  chickens  when  I 
go  to  see  her.  But  if  I  go  off  and  earn  some  money  and 
get  somewhere,  I  can  come  back  and  court  her  as  open  and 
above  board  as  anybody,  with  my  head  up  and  money  in 
my  pockets.  John  Henry  couldn't  say  nothing  against  me, 
because,  because — "  He  hesitated.  He  did  not  know  how 
to  say  it.  "I'd  be  somebody.  See?" 

Mart  saw,  but  he  also  saw  a  valid  objection.  "Yeah,  son 
— but  whilst  you're  away  she  might  very  easy  get  married 
to  somebody  else.  D'you  think  of  that?" 

"No — not  Judy.  She'd  wait  for  me,  and  I  know  it. 
She's  not  the  fickle  kind." 

"All  women  are  the  fickle  kind." 

"Judy's  not.  Anyway  I  can't  marry  her  now.  I'm  too 
young  and  so's  she,  and  now,  whilst  she's  too  young  to 
marry  anybody  else  is  the  time  I  ought  to  be  putting  in  my 
best  licks  at  getting  on  in  the  world.  I'll  never  get  any- 
where around  here — never." 

The  despair  in  his  voice,  his  determination  showed  how 
he  had  hypnotized  himself  into  an  utter  belief  in  what  he 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  291 

said.  Mart  recognized  it,  and  acquiesced  in  it.  "If  you 
feel  so  strong  thisaway,  maybe  you've  got  the  rights  of  it. 
When  d'you  want  to  light  out?" 

•''In  the  morning.  You  don't  need  me  any  longer — the 
heavy  work's  done,  and  there's  nothing  but  the  fall  plow- 
ing and  the  corn  husking."  Mart  could  feel  the  undertone 
of  wild  impatience  to  be  gone,  he  saw  that  the  boy  was 
putting  a  strong  curb  on  himself,  that  the  day's  emotions 
had  been  a  stormy  ordeal. 

"Don't  you  want  to  wait  a  day  or  two  and  kind  of  mull 
it  over?" 

"No — no,  Mr.  Bladen.     There's  no  use  waiting." 

"Maybe  not.  But — seems  to  me  kind  of  a  far  venture. 
S'pose  it  don't  turn  out  exactly  like  you're  figuring  on." 

There  was  an  instant  of  feeling  silence,  and  then  the 
boy's  cry  came  from  his  heart.  "I  ain't  going  to  think 
about  that.  I  got  to  try  it,  anyhow.  If  I  didn't  I  might 
just  as  well  give  up,  and — and  be  like  the  rest  of  the 
Kemps." 

"Well,  sir — I  guess  you're  right,  and  don't  you  mind 
what  kind  of  spoil-sport  things  I  been  saying.  That's  noth- 
ing but  age  talkin'  to  youth,  like  it  always  talks.  Got  any 
place  in  mind  to  strike  out  for?" 

"I  thought  I'd  go  to  Chicago  and  hunt  me  a  job  at  the 
stock  yards.  There  was  a  piece  in  the  paper  said  they  paid 
big  wages  out  there.  And  if  I  don't  like  the  city  I'm  going 
out  to  some  of  them  ranches  you  hear  about,  and  maybe 
buy  me  a  little  bunch  of  cattle,  and  see  what  I  can  do." 

It  was  the  vaguest,  most  nebulous  of  plans,  but  it  was 
a  plan,  and  it  impressed  Mart  accordingly.  "Well,  sir — 
that  sounds  right  reasonable.  Want  I  should  lend  you  a 
little  cash?  I'd  be  glad  to.  Might  call  it  an  investment." 

"I  can  get  along.  I  been  saving  my  wages."  He  was 
not  ungracious,  but  he  was  already  remote,  absorbed  in  that 
future  that  was  to  blot  out  the  past,  assuage  the  wounds 
of  poverty  and  defeat. 

"Wisht  I'd've  done  something  like  that  when  I  was  a 


292  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

young  man,"  said  Mart  meditatively.  "But  no,  I  never 
thought  of  it.  I  was  like  a  field-mouse,  I  had  me  a  snug 
bed  and  I  stayed  in  it." 

He  began  to  think  of  how  it  would  seem  to  have  Lee 
gone.  "I'm  goin'  to  miss  you  right  smart,  Caesar  and  me 
both.  And  Sally,  too." 

"I'll  miss  you-all.  I'll  miss  you  more'n  I'll  miss  my 
own  blood-kin." 

"I  never  took  much  stock  in  all  the  talk  about  blood-kin, 
and  how  you  ought  to  like  'em,  and  do  for  'em  just  because 
they  come  from  the  same  root  and  branch  as  yourself," 
spoke  Mart.  "My  sisters  are  the  two  most  wearisome 
women  in  the  whole  of  the  state  of  Maryland,  and  their 
children's  ugly-mannered  and  greedy,  and  why  shouldn't  I 
see  it  even  if  I  am  their  uncle  ?  They  was  right  nice  young 
girls,  my  sisters,  too,  but  now  they're  fat  and  bossy.  No, 
I  don't  hold  with  blood-kin  ties.  Always  seemed  to  me 
mostly  a  kind  of  conceit,  when  a  man  or  a  woman  cracks 
up  his  family  and  all  his  relations  just  because  they  got 
the  same  name." 

He  was  aware  that  Lee  was  not  listening,  but  it  eased 
him  to  speak  these  casual  nothings.  Events  were  crowding 
on  him  too  fast.  He  did  not  have  time  to  get  done  with 
one  situation  before  he  was  in  the  thick  and  press  of 
another.  First  Judy,  then  Lee,  and  now  Judy  and  Lee 
inextricably  intertwined.  It  had  been  a  confusing,  hateful, 
miserable  day.  For  consolation  he  dwelt  on  the  story  that 
Judge  Markwood  had  publicly  "dressed  down"  the  objec- 
tionable Young  Ed.  Mart  wished  he  had  been  where  he 
could  have  listened.  He  had  heard  the  Judge  in  invective 
before  this,  and  he  was  amazing.  Lost  in  such  reflections 
they  turned  in  at  the  home  lane,  Florrie  still  limping  pain- 
fully, Lee  wrapt  in  a  vision  of  winning  fame  and  wealth 
in  the  unknown  West,  Mart  a  little  bemused  under  the 
stresses  of  the  day. 

Manlike,  they  discussed  no  details  of  Lee's  going.  But 
in  the  evening,  after  supper,  Judy  was  mentioned  again. 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  293 

"You  ought  to  say  good-by  to  her,"  said  Mart. 

Lee  looked  at  him  somberly.  "If  I  went  over  there  her 
Pa'd  not  let  me  see  her.  Oh,  I  know  it.  But  she'll  under- 
stand. I  told  her  once  I  was  going  off  if  things  didn't 
come  out  right."  He  paused,  knitting  his  brows.  "And  look 
here,  Mr.  Bladen,  I  can't  lose  a  day.  I  been  going  over  it 
in  my  mind.  Young  Ed'll  be  sore  and  mad  at  her  now  for 
tricking  him,  and  running  off,  and  he'll  stay  away  from 
her,  so  I  don't  need  to  worry  about  him.  And  she  prom- 
ised me  straight  out  she  wouldn't  marry  him — " 

"She  did !" 

"Yes,  sir,  she  did.  I  asked  her,  because  I  couldn't  take 
no  chance  on  that.  But  look — how  pretty  she  is !  Even 
with  Young  Ed  out  the  way  there's  bound  to  be  a  pack 
of  other  fellows  after  her,  once  she  grows  up  a  little  more. 
She's  the  prettiest  girl  anywheres  round — you  know  she  is. 
So  I  got  to  hustle.  Saying  good-by  ain't  anything.  She 
knows  how  I  feel."  He  looked  up  at  Mart  with  perfect 
trust.  "And  then  you're  right  here  alongside  of  her — you 
c'n  take  care  of  her." 

Vehement  words  rushed  to  Mart  Bladen's  lips.  "I  take 
care  of  her,"  he  wanted  to  cry  out.  "Of  all  the  people  in 
the  world,  I've  taken  less  care  of  her  than  any.  I've  been 
worse  to  her  than  John  Henry  himself — " 

But  he  was  silent.  He  drew  a  long  troubled  sigh.  These 
things  must  never  be  said — confession,  however  relieving, 
must  never  be  made.  "I'll  do  my  possible,"  he  promised, 
"but  you  know  I  got  no  right  to  interfere  in  any  man's 
family  affairs,  like  I  told  you  before." 

As  Lee  was  going  upstairs  to  bed  he  gave  a  short  boyish 
chuckle.  "There's  one  bright  spot  in  this  thing,  Mr.  Bladen 
— when  I  think  how  swelled  up  with  mad  Young  Ed  Cal- 
loway  is — I  could  laugh,  blest  if  I  couldn't.  That's  some- 
thing, ain't  it?" 

Mart  agreed  that  it  was. 

In  the  morning  Mart  drove  him  to  the  train,  and  shook 
his  hand  wrenchingly.  "Good-by  and  good  luck.  You're 


294  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

i 

welcome  to  come  back  any  time  you're  a  mind  to.  And 
drop  me  a  postal  card  every  now  and  then,  so's  I  know 
where  you  are  and  how  you're  getting  on." 

Lee  answered  haltingly.  "Yes,  sir — yes,  sir,  I'll  do  it. 
And  say — look  here,  Mr.  Bladen — you'll  tell  Judy  about  me 
going  off — and — and  let  me  know  how  she  is  and  what's 
going  on — her  Pa,  you  know — he's  been  so  down  on  her — " 

"I'll  do  my  possible  for  Judy  and  you,  too,"  promised 
Mart  again. 

But  when  the  train  had  gone  and  he  turned  to  go  home, 
he  had  again  that  flash  of  feeling  that  life  had  wholly 
deluded  and  hoaxed  him,  denied  him.  He  had  done  noth- 
ing. He  had  achieved  nothing  for  himself  or  for  others. 
And  that  the  simple  content  in  which  most  of  his  days  was 
passed  was  something  stupid,  thin  and  poor.  He  did  not 
rebel  against  his  life,  as  did  John  Henry.  But  his  face  was 
clouded,  and  his  heart  beat  wearily.  Once  again  he  felt  the 
creeping  premonition  of  empty  age. 

"I'll  get  me  a  drink  of  whisky  soon's  I  get  home,"  he 
thought.  "I  need  a  little  stim'lant,  dull's  I  feel.  I'm  going 
to  miss  that  boy,  doggone  him — I  don't  know  why  he  had 
to  get  this  idea  in  his  head — and  yet  I  do  see — and  young 
folks  are  rash,  they  can't  wait  for  things  to  turn  round  to 
'em,  but  they've  got  to  up  and  fix  matters  themselves.  And 
I  promised  him  I'd  see  to  Judy,  but  how  I'm  to  do  it  beats 
me,  without  coming  right  down  to  trouble  with  John 
Henry." 

He  drove  in  past  the  house,  calling  Ephum  to  come  and 
unharness,  got  out  of  the  buggy  and  left  it  before  the 
stable.  As  he  did  so  he  saw  with  impatience  that  the  upper 
barn  door  was  open,  swinging  in  the  wind. 

"Damn  those  niggers,"  he  cursed.  "They've  broke  that 
ketch  again,  or  else  they've  just  left  her  open  for  careless- 
ness." 

Into  the  barn  he  went,  climbed  the  stairs  to  the  loft,  and 
straddled  through  the  loose  slippery  hay  that  blocked  his 
way.  He  reached  for  the  door,  but  as  he  did  so,  it  swung 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  295 

back,  away  from  him.  Cursing  and  growling  his  impatience, 
he  reached  again,  leaning  far  out,  caught  at  it  as  it  came 
a  little  nearer  to  him,  missed,  over-balanced  and  fell.  His 
great  body  flung  out  of  the  high  door,  desperately  agitated, 
like  some  great  manikin,  galvanized  and  sprawling  and 
clumsy,  as  he  clutched  and  kicked  to  try  to  save  himself. 
There  were  stones  below. 

But  it  was  no  use.  He  went  down,  turning  a  grotesque 
and  tragic  somersault,  struck  and  lay  stilL  Ephum,  coming 
lazily  to  unharness,  found  him  there  and  raised  a  mighty 
cry  of  terror  and  dread. 

"Sally!"  he  shouted.  "Sally!  Marse  Mart  done  fall  en 
kill  hissef !  Oh,  Lawd  in  heben — oh,  mah  Lawd.  .  .  /' 


CHAPTER  ELEVEN 

IT  was  no  use  trying  to  keep  the  story  of  the  tournament: 
from  John  Henry.  He  got  it  all,  roused  to  instant  suspi- 
cion when  Virgie  and  Judy  both  came  home  with  the  Rev- 
erend Todd,  and  without  Young  Ed.  Before  the  minister's 
callow  dignity  John  Henry  managed  to  be  calm.  He  made 
no  comment,  save  moderate  exclamations  at  the  unusual 
quality  of  the  tale,  but  he  darted  toward  the  drooping,  un- 
happy Judy  a  glance  of  such  black  censure  that  she  winced 
and  shuddered.  The  Reverend  Todd  was  looking  at  Virgie 
and  did  not  see  that.  But  Louellen  saw  it,  and  so  did 
Rachel,  who  was  standing,  out  of  vision,  at  a  crack  of  the 
kitchen  door.  Rachel  had  smelled  trouble,  and  she  meant 
to  hear  it  first-hand. 

"You  better  go  to  bed,  Judy,"  said  Louellen.  "You  do 
look  poorly,  and  that's  a  fact." 

It  was  a  slight  defense  and  futile,  this  getting  her  out  of 
sight  and  hearing  of  John  Henry.  No  sooner  had  the  Rev- 
erend Todd  departed  than  John  Henry  summoned  the  err- 
ing one  before  him. 

"You  go  on  out,  Louellen,"  he  said;  "I'm  going  to  talk 
to  the  young  lady  alone." 

"No,  I  reckon  I'll  stay,"  said  Louellen,  sitting  down. 

"You  go  out,  I  tell  you.    It'll  be  better  for  all  concerned." 

"No." 

"You  go." 

"I'm  going  to  stay  right  here  and  listen  to  every  word 
you  say  to  Judy." 

"I  suppose  you're  afraid  somebody'll  harm  your  pet.  I 
suppose  you're  afraid  she  might  be  punished  for  making 
herself  and  her  family  a  by-word  and  a  laughing-stock 
through  the  whole  county  and  putting  an  open  slight  on  a 
fine  young  chap  like  Ed  Galloway.  I  suppose  you  want  to 

296 


'One  Thing  Is  Certain  297 

uphold  her  In  such  -doings,  as  you've  always  upheld  her  in 
all  her  frowardness  and  contumacy." 

Louellen  tried  to  be  reasonable.  "I  don't  uphold  Judy 
when  she's  done  something  wrong,  and  you  know  it.  But 
I'm  not  going  to  have  her  scared  half  out  of  her  life  and 
nagged  and  hollered  at  by  you  over  nothing.  She  don't 
like  Ed  Galloway  and  you  forcing  him  on  her  the  way  you 
do  sets  her  against  him  worse'n  ever  and  drives  her  into 
doing  these  ridiculous  things,  because  she's  nothing  but  a 
child,  and  when  a  child's  in  panic,  it'll  cut  and  run,  every 
time.  And  that's  all  that  Judy  did  to-day.  She  might've 
done  a  lot  worse." 

She  was  aware  that  she  was  not  changing  his  mood,  or 
softening  it,  but  rather  deepening  and  intensifying  it.  But 
she  must  make  her  protest,  cost  what  it  would.  She  felt 
in  him  something  more  harsh,  more  inexorable,  than  she 
had  ever  known  before. 

He  did  not  answer  her  except  to  show  that  strange  cruel 
smile  of  his  she  knew  so  well,  and  to  open  the  stair  door. 
"Judy — come  down  here,"  he  called. 

After  a  moment  Judy  came.  She  had  taken  off  her  new 
frock,  and  put  on  an  old  wrapper,  faded  blue,  the  collar 
unbuttoned,  showing  the  babyish  softness  of  her  throat. 
She  had  braided  her  hair.  The  childishness,  the  defense- 
lessness  of  her,  the  fear  in  her  eyes,  hurt  Louellen  so  that 
she  could  hardly  bear  it.  But  she  did  not  go  to  her  as  she 
wished  to  do.  An  open  embrace  might  only  incite  John 
Henry  to  deeds  of  perverse  madness. 

"Well,  Miss,"  said  John  Henry,  still  with  his  stiff  smile, 
"perhaps  you'll  explain  now  why  you  acted  the  way  you 
did  this  afternoon." 

"I  can't  explain."    She  didn't  lift  her  eyes. 

"You'd  better  try." 

"There  wouldn't  be  any  use.    You  wouldn't  Relieve  me." 

"Is  that  the  way  to  answer  me?" 

Judy  was  silent  for  a  moment.  "I  don't  know  any  other 
way  to  answer  you,"  she  said  at  last  desperately.  "I  was 


298  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

up  there  on  the  grandstand  and  when  Ed  Galloway  won 
I  knew  he'd  come  and  crown  me  Queen  before  everybody 
and  I  couldn't  stand  it.  So  I  run  off." 

"You  run  off  alone,  I  suppose.    Where  did  you  run  to?" 

Judy  dropped  her  head,  her  voice  was  very  low.  "I  run 
off  with  Unc'  Mart.  He  was  right  there  and  I  asked  him 
to  take  me  away  and  get  me  out  of  sight  so's  Ed  Galloway 
couldn't  find  me.  And  he  did.  And  when  we'd  come  a 
piece  he  said  he  was  afraid  Virgie'd  worry  too  much  and 
we  turned  around  and  come  back  and  met  Virgie  on  the 
road.  And  I  came  on  home  with  her.  There,  that's  all 
of  it." 

"You  knew  I'd  forbidden  you  to  have  anything  to  do 
with  Mart  Bladen,  a  drunken  sot,  a  notorious  evil-liver." 

"You  only  said  I  shouldn't  go  over  there  to  his  house 
nor  run  out  to  the  road  when  he  come  by.  That's  not  the 
same.  I  couldn't  help  his  being  on  the  grandstand." 

John  Henry  was  working  himself  up  into  a  passion  of 
denunciation,  walking  back  and  forth,  his  dark  vein  twitch- 
ing, his  hands  uneasy.  He  came  up  to  Judy  and  stared  at 
her.  Foul  words  bubbled  to  his  lips.  "You  vicious  little 
b-bitch,"  he  broke  out,  his  voice  snarling,  thick  with  rage. 
"You  stinking  little  trull.  By  rights  I  ought  to  take  a  gad 
to  you  and — "  His  arms  shot  out,  he  caught  and  shook  her 
with  all  his  strength,  as  if  he  would  tear  her  in  pieces. 
Judy  did  not  cry  out — she  was  a  rag  in  his  hands — but 
Louellen  leaped  at  him,  caught  his  arms,  wrenching, 
fighting. 

"Stop  it,"  she  cried  out  wildly.  "John  Henry!  I'll  call 
in  the  farm  hands  and  have  you  tied  up — " 

She  did  not  know  what  she  was  saying,  nor  did  he.  He 
flung  Judy  aside  violently.  "Go  upstairs  to  your  room," 
he  commanded,  "and  don't  let  me  see  you  again  till  I've 
decided  what  punishment's  fit  for  you — " 

He  strode  into  his  own  little  den,  and  banged  the  door 
hard  behind  him,  turned  the  key.  Judy  looked  at  Louellen 
and  Louellen  at  Judy.  "Go  back  to  bed,"  whispered  Lou- 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  299 

ellen.  "I'll  come  up  presently,  and  we'll  talk.  Did  he — 
hurt  you  much  ?" 

"No,"  said  Judy,  dazed.  "He  didn't  hurt  me  much — 
maybe  my  arms — "  She  touched  the  places  where  he  had 
grasped  her.  "Mother — Mother — I  don't  know  what  to 
do — "  She  was  trembling,  stricken  with  utter  terror.  "He 
looked  so  ...  do  you  think  he  means  to  whip  me?  .  .  ." 

"You  go  on  upstairs,"  repeated  Louellen.  "No,  he  shan't 
touch  you  again,  not  ever." 

She  was  far  from  feeling  the  confidence  she  expressed, 
but  she  must  drive  that  fear  from  Judy's  eyes,  must  re- 
assure her.  "Run  on,  dear,"  she  urged,  "before  he  comes 
out  again."  At  the  thought  of  John  Henry's  reappearance 
Judy  scuttled  away. 

Louellen  stood,  looking  at  his  closed  door,  bending  to- 
ward it  a  little  in  the  concentration  of  her  indecision. 
What  to  do?  Her  thoughts  went  madly  round  and  round, 
flying  always  in  pain,  in  apprehension.  At  last  she  went 
slowly  to  the  door  and  put  her  face  close  to  the  crack  of  it. 

"John  Henry,"  she  said.  He  did  not  reply.  The  con- 
soling wish  came  to  her  that  he  might  be  dead,  stricken 
with  the  sudden  apoplexy  of  anger,  and  for  a  moment  she 
hesitated,  relishing  the  thought.  She  spoke  again,  her 
words  like  pebbles  chipped  against  glass:  "John  Henry. 
You  listen  to  me.  If  you  ever  lay  your  hand  on  Judy 
again,  I'll  go  to  the  next  prayermeeting,  and  when  they're 
giving  in  experiences  I'll  get  right  up  before  the  church 
full  and  tell  everything — everything — about  you — and  about 
me.  Understand  me?  I  mean  it.  I'll  do  it  if  I  have  to 
crawl  there.  I'll  make  the  county  ring."  She  waited  for 
an  answer,  but  none  came.  Again  she  thought  of  the  pos- 
sibility that  he  might  have  had  a  stroke,  but  she  did  not 
care.  "He's  locked  the  door,  so  if  anything's  happened  to 
him  I  can't  get  at  him." 

Long  ago,  when  they  were  first  married,  she  remembered 
how  she  had  wished  for  death  for  herself.  Now  she  stood 
there  coolly  wishing  death  for  John  Henry  without  a  quiver 


300  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

at  the  wickedness  of  it.  But  she  was  trembling,  trembling 
more  than  Judy. 

Weakly  she  went  over  to  her  chair  and  dropped  down, 
overpowered.  Her  mind  was  intent  on  what  she  had  said 
to  John  Henry,  through  the  door.  It  was  the  first  time 
she  had  ever  put  that  threat  into  words,  though  she  had 
often  dreamed  of  it. 

"I'll  do  it,"  she  vowed.  "I'll  do  it  as  sure  as  I  live  if  he 
touches  Judy  again.  He's  been  warned.  I  don't  care  if  it 
pulls  the  whole  world  down  on  my  head,  I'll  do  it.  To 
speak  to  her  that  way.  .  .  .  He  ought  to  be  tied  up  like  a 
mad  dog.  It'd  be  gall  and  wormwood  to  his  pride  and 
vanity  to  have  people  know.  .  .  .  His  place  in  the  church 
and  folks  praising  him  up — that's  his  meat  and  drink.  If 
it  was  only  me  he  took  his  spite  out  on,  and  not  Judy!" 
Again  she  faced  the  grimness  of  the  innocent  bearing  the 
punishment  of  the  guilty,  pressed  the  sharp  thorn  of  that 
knowledge  into  her  heart.  And  in  her  heart  there  pressed 
also  a  sharp  doubt,  a  doubt  that  made  her  scorn  herself,  but 
which  persisted  in  spite  of  that  self-scorn,  a  doubt  that 
asked  her  if  she  had  courage,  strength,  daring  enough  to 
brand  John  Henry  Hyde  and  herself,  publicly,  as  she  had 
warned  him  she  would  do  if  he  ever  touched  Judy  again  in 
violence.  Her  doubt  reminded  her  dispassionately  that  al- 
ways at  the  crux  of  action  she  had  failed — she  had  failed 
to  break  off  her  marriage  with  John  Henry,  she  had  failed 
to  stay  with  Mart  though  she  had  fled  to  him!  Always, 
always  she  had  failed.  It  was  not  unlikely  that  she  would 
fail  once  more.  Terribly  she  feared  her  weakness,  recog- 
nizing it,  hating  it. 

Virgie  and  Bud  ventured  in,  looking  about  them  awfully. 

"What'd  he  do  to  her,  Ma?  What'd  he  say?"  asked 
Virgie.  "I'd  never  have  told  him  in  the  world  if  there'd 
been  any  way  to  have  kept  it.  But  there  he  was,  at  me — 
and  of  course  Will  Todd  didn't  know,  and  he  out  with 
everything.  Was  Pa  awful  mean  with  her?" 

"Yes,  he  was,"  said  Louellen,  "and  he's  in  there  now 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  301 

thinking  up  a  way  to  punish  her.  I  don't  know  what's  to 
come  of  it  all." 

"If  I'd  only  known  what  she  was  up  to,  I'd've  begged  her 
to  stay  and  let  Ed  Galloway  crown  her  and  not  make  a 
fuss.  But  she  was  gone  in  a  wink.  I  was  so  upset.  Only 
some  people  said  she'd  gone  along  with  Unc'  Mart,  and  so 
— well,  it  was  awful  mortifying,  with  Ed  at  such  a  pitch. 
Only  I  don't  like  him,  and  so  I  wasn't  sorry  for  him." 

Louellen  looked  at  her  two  older  children  doubtfully. 
She  was  not  sure  how  much  she  ought  to  tell  them,  or  how 
little.  "I'm  going  upstairs  to  Judy,"  she  said.  "Tell  Rachel 
to  put  supper  on,  and  you  go  ahead  and  eat.  We're  an  hour 
late  with  it  now." 

The  house  imperceptibly  shook  down  into  its  calm 
monotony  of  routine.  Rachel  appeared,  stormy  at  the  vio- 
lence done  her  favorite,  her  under  lip  projecting  in  magnifi- 
cent barbaric  anger,  banging  plates,  rattling  knives  and 
forks  with  vindictive  emphasis. 

"How  anybody  especk  suppeh  gwine  tas'e  lak  suppeh,  dis 
hou'  de  night !  All  dry  up  erwaitin',  settin'  on  top  de  stove. 
Er  lot  ah  keer !  Ah  doan  keer  ef  it  choke  some  people  to 
def,  so  ha'd  en  dry."  She  directed  a  poisonous  glance  to- 
ward the  closed  door  behind  which  John  Henry  was  con- 
cealed. 

Virgie  and  Bud  gave  a  helpless  look.  "Come  on,  let's 
eat,"  he  said,  his  boy's  appetite  asserting  itself.  "I'm  hol- 
low to  my  toes." 

Silently  they  slipped  into  their  places,  began  to  eat 
quickly,  so  as  not  to  disturb  the  man  in  the  little  room 
beyond. 

"Going  to  call  him  ?"  whispered  Bud. 

Virgie  shook  her  head. 

"It  may  make  him  madder  yet  if  he  knows  we  went  on 
and  had  supper  without  him." 

Rachel  had  paused  to  hear  them.  The  old  woman  gave 
them  a  scornful  glance,  walked  heavily  over  to  the  door 
and  banged  on  it  with  her  fist.  "Suppeh  raidy,"  she  called 


302  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

in  full  voice,  mockingly,  defiantly,  through  to  the  angry 
demon  hidden  there.  Then  she  stalked  off  to  the  kitchen, 
swinging  her  shoulders,  head  up. 

Virgie  and  Bud  waited,  but  there  was  no  sound.  They 
went  on  eating,  exchanging  meaningful  looks,  now  and 
then. 

"Home  sweet  home,"  whispered  Bud.  "No  place  like 
home,  thank  goodness." 


CHAPTER  TWELVE 

DOCTOR  TITHELOW  wiped  his  fat  efficient  old  hands  on 
the  towel  Ephum  had  brought.  "You  want  the  truth?"  he 
asked  judicially. 

"If  you  can  tell  it,"  replied  Mart  with  rough  humor. 
These  weeks  of  complete  helplessness  had  changed  him  little. 
Even  his  eyes  did  not  show  his  suffering.  His  ruddy  color 
had  faded  but  not  noticeably.  Perhaps  the  ringer  touch  of 
silver  at  his  temples  had  widened.  But  that  was  all.  He 
lay  there  in  his  bare  disordered  bedroom,  propped  with  pil- 
lows, inert,  unbroken  in  temper  or  in  mirth. 

Still  the  doctor  hesitated.  "Go  ahead,  spit  it  out,"  urged 
Mart.  "Nobody  ever  said  of  me  yet  I  was  a  coward." 

"Here  it  is  then.  You've  got  a  year  at  the  most.  Maybe 
less.  But  not  more.  I  wish  to  God  I  could  tell  you  some- 
thing different." 

"A  year's  plenty  if  I've  got  to  lie  here  with  a  broken 
back,"  said  Mart.  "Yes,  sir,  a  year's  plenty.  But  at  that  I 
might  fool  you." 

"I  hope  you  do." 

"Let's  lay  a  bet  on  it.  I'll  put  up  Chloe  against  that 
prize  pair  of  beagles  of  yours  that  I'm  right  here  two  years 
come  Christmas.  I'll  put  it  in  my  will  that  you're  to  get 
her  in  case  I  lose.  What  say,  Doc?" 

"I  always  have  hankered  after  that  mare,"  said  the  Doc- 
tor, rising  to  his  spirit.  "I'll  go  you,  damn  if  I  don't." 

"That's  O.  K.  then — and  you  better  make  up  your  mind 
to  kiss  your  beagles  good-by.  By  Judas,  I  don't  feel  a  bit 
like  dying." 

"I  wish  you  had  a  nurse  here,  some  good  sensible  woman 
who'd  make  you  comfortable." 

"Now  for  God's  sake  don't  begin  again  to  talk  about  a 
nurse  for  me.  I  had  to  drive  Sis  Mollie  and  Sis  Rhoda 

303 


304  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

out  the  house  as  it  is.  They  set  me  crazy.  No,  sir,  Ephum 
and  Sally  and  I've  stuck  together  a  right  good  while  and  I 
guess  we  can  make  out  to  the  end." 

"Why  don't  you  send  for  that  boy  of  Joe  Kemp's  to 
come  back — he'd  be  a  lot  of  help  to  you?  I  kind  of  liked 
that  boy." 

"No — I  won't  do  that.  He  was  so  set  on  going  and  to 
hi'st  him  back  here  to  hang  around  an  old  cripple  ain't  fair 
to  him.  Post  card  come  from  him  only  yesterday,  and  he's 
got  a  good  job  out  in  Chicago,  and  he's  tickled  to  death 
with  himself.  No,  sir,  I  put  no  claim  on  anybody,  and 
never  did.  And  if  my  time's  so  short  all  the  more  reason 
why  I  should  get  along  as  I  am." 

"All  the  more  reason  why  you  should  be  comfortable, 
and  have  good  care,  you  pig-head." 

"Well,  I  won't  have  anybody,  so  there's  the  long  and 
short  of  it.  Now  see  here,  Doc,  Ephum  sleeps  right  out- 
side my  door — he's  put  up  a  pallet  for  himself,  and  I  can't 
stir  but  what  he's  awake  and  ready  to  do  for  me.  And 
when  I'm  awake  if  he's  back  in  the  kitchen  or  out  any- 
wheres, I  got  this  bell  here  and  I  sound  it.  I  don't  know 
of  anything  that  could  suit  me  better.  Of  course,  if  I  get 
much  worse,  or  more  helpless — say,  Doc,  am  I  going  to  get 
much  worse,  suffer  much?" 

"You'll  maybe  get  more  helpless,  but  you  won't  suffer 
much.  And  I  want  you  to  stay  absolutely  quiet.  If  you 
try  to  roust  around  you'll  maybe  go  out — like  that."  He 
lightly  snapped  a  thumb  and  finger.  "Take  it  easy — and 
don't  worry  any  more'n  you  can  help." 

Mart  laughed.  "Fine  advice  to  give  a  man  who's  always 
been  up  and  around,  and  mostly  lived  on  horseback.  Judas 
Priest,  that's  what  irks  me  the  most,  that  I'll  never  throw 
a  leg  over  a  horse  again.  I  have  one  of  the  hands  exer- 
cise Chloe  every  day  right  down  the  lane  here  where  I  can 
watch  him,  and  sometimes  it  makes  me  want  to  cry  when 
I  see  her,  with  Caesar  racing  alongside,  looking  up  as  if 
he  was  wondering  why  I  wasn't  on  her." 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  305 

Caesar,  lying  by  the  bedside,  heard  his  name  and  thumped 
an  acknowledging  tail. 

"The  time  gets  heavy,  I  know,"  said  the  Doctor,  his  voice 
a  little  hoarse. 

"You  betcha  it  does.  Doc,  what  say  we  have  a  little  game 
of  seven-up?  You  got  the  time?" 

"If  I  hadn't,  I'd  take  it." 

"I'm  just  aching  to  feel  the  cards  under  my  fingers. 
They're  there  on  the  stand.  What  stakes  shall  we  play?'* 
He  was  all  eagerness,  his  infirmity  forgotten. 

The  Doctor  lifted  a  makeshift  table,  legs  sawed  off,  to 
stand  across  Mart's  body,  and  brought  the  cards.  They 
settled  to  the  game. 

When  it  was  over  Mart  had  won  a  dime,  and  was  cor- 
respondingly cheered.  The  Doctor  was  actually  peevish,, 
and  this  dislike  of  losing  which  was  always  manifest  in  him 
at  cards  raised  Mart's  spirits  further  as  a  friend's  small 
weaknesses  always  amuse  and  elate.  But  as  his  guest  put 
on  his  coat  to  go  the  sick  man's  face  fell. 

"Drop  in  every  time  you're  passing,  won't  you,  Doc?'* 
he  begged.  "And  tell  any  of  the  boys  you  see  to  ride  out 
and  have  a  game.  I  may  be  bed-rid,  but  I'm  still  able  ta 
play  cards." 

"Yes,  I'll  tell  'em.  And  I'll  be  back  myself  to  get  my 
revenge  or  else  to  lose  some  more  of  my  hard-earned 
money."  He  turned  at  the  door.  "By  the  way,  I  pretty 
near  forgot  one  piece  of  news  I  only  heard  this  morning. 
Maybe  you  know  it  already.  About  your  neighbor  over 
here — John  Henry?" 

"No — I  haven't  heard  tell  of  any  of  John  Henry's  doings 
since  I  fell  out  the  barn-loft — maybe  longer.  We  never 
did  have  much  put,  John  Henry  and  me,  and  lately  we  had 
less'n  ever.  What's  he  up  to  now?" 

"You  know  his  oldest  girl — Virgie — the  one  that's  to  be 
married  to  the  young  Methodist  minister  along  in  the  New- 
Year?" 

"Yeah— I  know  'em  all." 


306  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

"Well,  now  I  hear  they're  going  to  make  it  a  double  wed- 
ding and  marry  off  the  little  one — Judy — to  Young  Ed  Cal- 
loway  at  the  same  time.  You  remember  the  to-do  there 
was  at  the  tournament,  about  her  dishing  him,  and  all.  I 
guess  there  wasn't  much  to  it.  But  I  want  to  tell  you, 
Mart,  that  it's  a  living  crime  to  put  a  girl  that's  hardly 
more'n  a  child,  as  pretty  and  as  sweet  as  a  posy,  into  Young 
Ed  Galloway's  claws.  There's  a  taint  in  his  blood,  and 
hell's  bells,  look  at  the  life  he's  led !  Of  course  he's  all  for 
piety  and  hymn-singing  now — but  it  wasn't  so  long  ago 
when  he  come  down  to  my  office  pretty  near  out  of  his 
mind.  He  thought  he'd  got  a  touch  of  something  no  man 
wants,  off  that  shantyboat  girl  he  was  thick  with  for  so 
long.  And  anyway,  even  if  he  was  clean  as  a  whistle,  the 
whole  Galloway  connection's  bad.  Not  that  I  ever  thought 
much  of  John  Henry  Hyde — but  that  youngest  of  his  never 
seemed  like  him — she  was  more  like  the  Wests,  and  they 
were  good  people,  all  the  way  through." 

"I  don't  believe  it,  Doc — I  don't  believe  Judy'd  let  her- 
self be  pushed  into  marrying  Young  Ed — I  don't  believe 
her  mother 'd  stand  it.  I  can  think  anything  of  John  Henry 
— and  I  kind  of  like  to  think  as  bad  as  I  can  of  him — he's 
the  sort  that  makes  you  feel  thataway." 

"I  don't  know — but  it's  the  talk  that's  a-going  round." 

Mart  watched  the  door  close  behind  him,  not  sorry  that 
he  had  gone.  So,  it  had  come.  The  little  scraps  and 
hints  that  had  been  before — he  recalled  Rena — had  become 
something  definite.  While  he  had  been  lying  there  helpless 
and  suffering,  John  Henry  had  somehow  compassed  his 
desire,  to  do  the  worst  that  he  could  with  Judy.  He  had 
bullied  and  brow-beaten  the  child,  somehow, — God  knew 
by  what  evil  ways, — into  a  forced  consent.  She  had  broken 
her  promise  to  Lee — and  he  was  breaking  his,  as  well,  and 
he  had  meant  to  look  out  for  her.  Sweat,  sweat  of  suffer- 
ing more  acute  than  had  yet  gripped  him,  stood  out  on  his 
forehead.  He  fetched  a  heaving  sigh. 

Twice  before  he  had  had  premonitions,  warnings  of  age, 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  307 

futility,  but  he  had  never  thought  it  would  be  like  this  from 
such  a  silly  senseless  accident.  That  when  the  great  need 
came  for  him  to  act  he  should  be  physically  helpless!  In 
all  his  life  he  had  never  been  anything  but  active,  strong, 
full  of  power  and  vigor.  Now  his  helpless  legs,  his 
weighted  hips,  mocked  at  the  memory  of  that  strength. 

A  darker,  more  tormenting  thought  shot  through  his  rage 
at  his  helplessness.  Doc  Tithelow  had  said  that  death  was 
near — it  might  come  in  a  year — it  might  come  sooner.  Mart 
knew  that  he  had  been  told  the  truth,  he  was  conscious  in 
himself  of  the  waning  of  his  life-force.  Something  within 
warned  him  that  the  steel  of  his  strength,  the  fiber  of  his 
vitality  were  alike  eaten  through,  and  might  at  any  time 
break. 

And  after  that — nothingness. 

He  closed  his  eyes  and  began  to  talk  aloud  to  himself,  a 
habit  new  to  him,  come  since  his  accident,  his  enforced 
helplessness. 

"I  wonder  if  there  is  a  God.  I  wonder  if  there  could  be. 
I  don't  recollect  that  I  ever  speculated  whether  there  was 
one  or  not.  But  anyway,  if  there  is,  you  listen  here,  God, 
I've  got  something  to  say  to  you.  Things  are  getting  pretty 
thick  for  me.  I've  lived  my  life  free  and  easy,  I  know.  I've 
always  liked  a  good  horse  and  a  pretty  woman — not  that  I 
was  ever  loose  with  women,  for  I  never  had  no  taste  for 
that — and  a  game  of  cards  and  a  bottle  of  good  whisky, 
and  I'd  rather  go  fox-hunting  than  to  prayermeeting,  any 
day.  So  far  as  I'm  concerned  I'll  stand  on  my  record,  and 
take  my  chance  of  hell-fire,  whenever  you  say  so, — if  you've 
got  any  say  to  it.  But  I'm  not  going  to  leave  little  Judy 
here  with  that  old  chinwhiskered  hypocrite  John  Henry 
Hyde  egging  her  on  to  marry  a  buzzard  like  Young  Ed 
Galloway.  Ed  Galloway!  By  cripes,  I  don't  know  what 
the  young  men  are  coming  to  to-day.  I  was  wild  enough — 
but  I  wasn't  rotten.  Let  him  get  his  filthy  paws  on  my 
Judy? — Not  much!  I've  left  most  everything  slip  by  me 
in  the  past,  and  done  nothing,  and  I've  held  my  peace  and 


308  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

stood  back  when  I  ought  to've  done  something  to  John 
Henry,  no  matter  what  confusion  come  of  it.  But — if  this 
is  true — I'm  going  to  put  my  invention  on  it,  and  till  I  see 
some  way  out,  I  give  you  fair  notice,  God,  that  I'm  not  a-- 
going to  die,  not  for  all  Doc  Tithelow  says — not  if  you 
was  to  send  old  Gabriel  himself  after  me  and  he  bust  a 
lung  blowing  on  his  trumpet — and  that's  flat." 

He  opened  his  eyes  again,  and  felt  better.  He  could 
even  smile  a  little,  thinking  what  a  fool  he  was  to  have 
made  believe  there  was  a  God  and  talked  to  him  as  man 
to  man.  All  the  same  he  had  stated  his  case,  he  had  made 
it  clear  to  himself  as  well  as  to  this  mythical  Deity  whose 
existence  he  had  never  actively  questioned,  but  had  also 
never  actively  accepted,  just  what  he  had  to  do  before  the 
coming  of  that  final  unescapable  nothingness  that  was  on  its 
way.  Despite  his  utter  helplessness  he  had  never  before 
felt  such  power.  He  had  found  at  last  the  alkahest, 
whereby  his  sluggish  acquiescences,  his  viscous  aimlessness 
might  be  transmuted  into  swift  piercing  purpose,  a  swift 
weapon  for  the  breast  of  his  enemies. 

But  over  and  beyond  this  he  was  aware  of  a  terrible 
loneliness,  a  new  emotion  for  him,  who  had  always  been 
peacefully  self-sufficient.  It  had  come  with  his  purpose,  it 
was  part  of  a  different  soul  which  had  invaded  him,  pos- 
sessed him.  Strength  was  vouchsafed  him,  but  this,  this 
isolation,  this  desire  for  some  one  of  his  own,  some  one 
bound  to  him  by  ties  of  love,  and  not  obligation,  or  self 
interest,  some  one  to  be  near  him,  to  understand  as  he  went 
down  into  that  nothingness  which  he  could  see  so  clearly, — 
if  he  could  have  this,  before,  the  afterwards  did  not 
matter. 

He  stared  around  his  neglected  bedroom,  and  discovered 
that  just  now,  when  he  must  so  soon  leave  it  forever,  he 
was  really  seeing  it  for  the  first  time,  its  bare  walls  and 
ugly  1870  furniture  painted  yellow  and  gray,  its  torn 
rag  carpet,  and  the  careless  paraphernalia  of  riding 
sticks,  dog  muzzles,  medicine  bottles,  soiled  linen,  smoky 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  309 

lamps  and  tossed-down  papers,  accumulations  of  years. 
He  felt  a  quick  distaste  for  it  all — it  had  been  all  right  to 
live  in,  but  it  was  mighty  slovenly  to  die  in.  Yet  he  loved 
it.  It  was  home. 

He  could  not  quite  believe  it  yet,  for  all  his  ready  accept- 
ance before  the  Doctor,  that  he  was  so  soon  to  leave  all  this, 
and  his  loamy  acres  that  he  had  tilled  for  so  many  years  of 
good  harvests,  as  his  fathers  had  done  before  him.  He 
had  said  to  himself,  sometimes,  since  the  accident,  that  if 
he  had  to  lie  helpless  in  bed  he'd  just  as  well  be  in  his  coffin, 
— yet  he  had  not  expected  a  sentence  of  death,  this  definite 
limiting  of  his  time.  Again  he  brought  himself  back  from 
his  wandering  speculations  with  a  jerk.  After  all — it 
mattered  very  little  about  him — his  day  was  done.  But 
Judy,  there — she  had  her  years  of  experience  to  come.  She 
must  be  safeguarded  by  his  failing  hands.  That  was  the 
thing  he  must  think  about — that  and  none  other. 

He  had  expected  her  to  come  to  see  him  every  day  since 
his  fall,  every  day  that  he  was  conscious — for  at  first  he 
had  lain  in  a  stupor,  an  enveloping  fog,  part  shock,  part 
opiates,  from  which  he  had  emerged  but  slowly.  She  had 
not  come,  and  he  was  sure  that  she  had  been  prevented  by 
John  Henry.  He  threshed  his  arms  about  impatiently,  im- 
potently.  He  swore.  He  gnawed  his  fingers.  What  a 
trap  he  was  in,  what  a  devil's  own  trap! 


CHAPTER  THIRTEEN 

JOHN  HENRY  HYDE,  behind  the  locked  door  where  he  had 
carried  his  overflowing  bile,  his  loosened  self,  had  listened 
with  unhearing  ears  alike  to  Louellen's  warning  and 
Mammy  Rachel's  scornful  summons  to  supper.  His  own 
caution,  his  own  guile  rebuked  him,  cautioned  him  that  he 
had  made  a  fool  of  himself,  that  he  had  gone  all  the  wrong 
way  to  get  what  he  wished.  Not  that  he  regretted  shaking 
Judy.  It  had  been  a  rich,  luscious  satisfaction  to  set  his 
fingers  in  her  soft  flesh  and  feel  her  helplessness  in  his 
hands.  He  had  enjoyed  it.  But  after  all,  this  was  not  what 
he  wanted.  His  sick  imagination  told  him  that  there  were 
other  things  that  might  be  done  to  her  that  would  be  far 
worse  for  her,  a  far  more  lasting  and  destructive  venge- 
ance. 

In  young  Ed  Galloway  he  had  seen  the  perfect  instru- 
ment, ready  to  his  hand.  By  giving  Judy  to  young  Ed  he 
would  ostensibly  be  a  good  father,  marrying  a  daughter 
worthily,  both  as  to  worldly  goods  and  as  to  religion.  And 
in  the  younger  man  he  knew  there  was  a  beastliness  akin 
to  that  which  lived  in  his  own  breast,  that  had  found  no 
expression  save  in  those  first  years  when  he  had  had  Lou- 
ellen  all  innocent  and  soft,  to  break,  to  tear,  to  smear  and 
dominate.  But  Louellen  had  cheated  him,  had,  in  the  end, 
been  too  strong  for  him,  had  flung  him  back,  denied  his 
beast,  and  escaped  him.  All  the  same,  there  had  been  a 
time.  .  .  . 

Even  so  would  young  Ed  deal  with  Judy,  and  by  getting 
her  young,  he  would  have  more  chance  to  break  her  abso- 
lutely, to  accomplish  a  complete  compulsion,  a  lasting,  hu- 
miliating control.  John  Henry  gloated  over  the  hope  of 
Judy  violated,  anguishad,  wasted.  If  he  could  have  given 
her  to  young  Ed  Galloway  without  marriage,  it  would 

310 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  311 

have  been  a  perfect  thing  to  him.  But  marriage  was  neces- 
sary for  his  own  good  name.  He  had  no  mind  to  lose  that 
in  ruining  Judy.  Oh,  but  he  wanted  her  spoiled,  her  bright 
color  dimmed  and  paled,  her  laughter  silenced,  her  youth 
extinguished.  His  distorted  passion  pressed  him  to  this 
purpose.  It  was  all  clear  to  him  now.  He  knew  that  this 
was  what  he  needed,  desired. 

But  he  knew  also  that  he  had  gone  too  far.  No  need  for 
him  to  hurt  and  affright  Judy  now — young  Ed  would  do 
that  for  him  later.  The  thing  was  to  get  her  in  young  Ed's 
power,  and  this  unforeseen  fiasco  of  the  tournament  and  her 
running  away,  young  Ed's  humiliation  before  all  the  crowd 
would  break  off  his  suit.  So,  the  necessity  was  to  mend 
these  broken  ties,  to  weld  them  firmly.  His  devious  brain 
turned  hungrily  to  ways  and  means  by  which  this  must  be 
done. 

He  drew  out  of  his  meditation  as  Louellen  came  down- 
stairs to  her  own  belated  supper.  To  her  surprise  he  was 
calm,  even  self-reproachful. 

"I'll  allow  I  was  a  little  too  harsh  with  Judy,"  he  told 
his  wife,  "but  I  was  so  provoked  with  her  foolishness.  I'm 
not  going  to  punish  her,  though,  only  that  I  won't  allow 
her  to  go  off  the  place  except  when  she's  with  you  and  me. 
She's  got  to  stay  at  home  till  she  knows  how  to  behave  her- 
self in  public.  You  tell  her  that,  Louellen.  And  tell  her 
she's  got  to  apologize  to  Ed,  provided  he's  in  any  humor 
to  listen  to  an  apology." 

Louellen,  listening  to  such  reasonable  proposals,  was  as 
relieved  as  amazed.  This  was  concession  far  beyond  any- 
thing she  had  anticipated,  and  her  whole  consciousness, 
which,  in  spite  of  her  misgivings  as  to  her  own  strength, 
she  had  steeled  to  further  conflict,  relaxed,  advanced  to 
meet  toleration  with  cooperation. 

"I  think  she  ought  to  apologize,  too,"  she  granted,  "and 
I  believe  she'll  see  it  in  the  same  way  when  she's  soothed 
down.  She's  only  a  child  yet,  John  Henry, — you  keep  for- 
getting that.  She's  never  been  around  much,  out  amongst 


312  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

people,  like  Virgie  has,  and  she  gets  excited  and  flies  off 
the  handle  and  does  childish  things." 

"Hmm,  yes,"  conceded  John  Henry,  his  eyes  on  his  plate. 
"I  expect  you're  right.  I'll  just  ride  over  to  see  Bro'  Callo- 
way  to-morrow  and  tell  him  I'm  ashamed  and  sorry  this  has 
happened,  and  sound  out  how  he  feels.  And  in  a  day  or 
two,  provided  he  holds  no  grudge,  I'll  bring  him  out  to 
supper,  and  every thing'll  be  smoothed  over." 

Louellen  started  to  say  that  if  young  Ed  bore  a  grudge 
better  let  him  bear  it  and  keep  him  away,  but  she  withheld 
the  words.  After  all,  Judy  had  behaved  very  badly,  and 
an  apology  would  not  be  out  of  place.  If  John  Henry's 
violence  could  be  quieted  so  easily,  it  seemed  but  a  small 
price  to  pay. 

Early  the  next  day  he  drove  over  to  young  Ed's  farm, 
and  found  him  surly  and  unwelcoming.  John  Henry  put 
on  an  air  of  awkwardness,  and  softness,  ingratiating, 
halting. 

"I  don't  suppose  you're  glad  to  see  me,  Brother  Galloway, 
and  I  can't  expect  you  to  be.  But  I  couldn't  rest  until  I'd 
told  you  how  ashamed  I  am  that  any  one  of  my  family 
should  act  so  badly  toward  you.  I  want  to  apologize  for 
her." 

Young  Ed  burst  out  into  reproaches:  "I  don't  lay  it  up 
against  you,  but  it's  not  agreeable  to  be  made  an  out-and- 
out  fool  of,  before  everybody  in  four  counties.  And  after 
I'd  laid  myself  out  to  get  the  prize,  nearly  run  my  best 
horse  off  his  legs.  ...  I  don't  know  what  you  call  it, 
but  I  call  it  mean  and  shabby." 

"I  call  it  worse  than  that,  Brother  Galloway,  but  you 
must  remember  that  she's  little  more'n  a  child."  He  remem- 
bered Louellen's  arguments  and  used  them.  "She's  not 
used  to  being  out  amongst  folks,  and  when  she  saw  herself 
brought  out  before  everybody  to  get  crowned,  she  had  a 
fit  of  flusters  and  run  away,  just  like  a  child  will  do.  That's 
no  excuse,  but  it's  a  reason,  at  least.  I  wish  I  might  ask 
you  to  overlook  it." 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  313 

"Any  other  girl'd've  been  tickled  to  death.  She's  the 
queerest  girl  I  ever  see.  I  don't  know  what  keeps  me  run- 
ning after  her — she's  been  as  cool  and  uppish  ever  since 
the  first.  .  .  .  And  now  this.  I'll  never  hear  the  last  of 
it  long's  I  live.  She's  made  me  a  joke  for  every  Tom, 
Dick  and  Harry  on  the  Shore." 

He  was  finding  it  a  relief  to  air  his  grievance.  He  re- 
garded John  Henry  with  less  disfavor.  "Of  course  I  know 
you  don't  uphold  her  in  it." 

John  Henry  considered.  Was  this  the  moment?  Would 
there  be  a  better  one?  He  thought  not. 

"I  don't  uphold  her  in  it,  and  she'll  know  better  herself, 
when  she  thinks  it  over.  In  fact,  she's  given  every  evidence 
of  being  utterly  sorry  now.  She  wants  to  apologize  to  you." 

"She  does  ?"    Young  Ed's  face  lighted. 

"Of  course  she  does.  She's  just  a  little  flighty,  and  un- 
certain, like  all  young  girls,  but  she's  got  a  good  heart,  and 
she  really  esteems  you  very  highly,  and  values  your  atten- 
tion." 

"She's  got  a  queer  way  of  showing  it." 

"But  you  must  have  realized  it,  for  though  you  say  she's 
been  cool  and  uppish  to  you — you  haven't  found  her  less 
attractive  for  that.  Maybe  you  felt  that  underneath  all  that 
was  a  real  liking  that  she  was  too  bashful  to  express.  .  .  ." 

Young  Ed's  jaw  dropped.  The  analysis  caught  his  vanity. 
"By  God,  there  might  be  something  in  that." 

John  Henry  passed  over  the  taking  of  the  Lord's  name 
in  vain,  which  normally  he  would  have  reprobated.  He 
was  closing  in  on  Young  Ed.  "Yes, — I've  thought  that  all 
along.  And  as  for  making  you  a  laughing-stock,  Brother 
Galloway,  there's  one  way  you  could  turn  the  tables  on  all 
the  laughers  and  make  them  see  that  the  way  she  treated 
you  was  nothing  but  what  it  really  is,  a  piece  of  childish 
excitement,  foolishness,  as  you  might  say." 

"Could  I, — how?"    He  was  greedily  eager. 

"If  you  married  her,"  said  John  Henry,  coolly.  "I  dare 
say  it's  odd  for  the  father  of  a  girl  to  speak  so  plainly, 


314  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

but  of  course  I  knew  that  a  young  man  of  your  character 
and  standing  had  no  other  motive  in  mind  in  paying  atten- 
tions to  my  daughter  than  marriage,  and  you  must  have 
known  that  I  welcomed  such  a  connection,  because  of  your 
being  a  church  member,  in  good  standing.  For  I've  always 
wanted  to  see  my  daughters  united  to  worthy  Christian 
men,  and  the  fact  that  the  Reverend  Todd  has  selected 
Virgie  to  be  his  help-mate  has  been  a  great  gratification 
to  me.  You  surely  must  be  aware  that  no  consideration 
of  worldly  goods  has  been  in  my  mind.  My  children  will 
all  be  amply  provided  for." 

He  was  clever  enough  to  leave  it  there,  for  a  moment. 
Young  Ed  was  getting  the  picture  entire,  his  mind  taking 
up  one  detail  after  another.  True  enough — people  couldn't 
laugh  at  him  if  he  married  the  girl — he'd  have  vindicated 
his  right  to  her.  And  he  had  been  thinking  of  marrying 
her !  And  his  old  grandfather  had  been  after  him  to  clinch 
the  matter.  Of  course  it  was  unheard  of  that  any  father 
should  literally  hold  a  man  up  and  tell  him  to  marry  his 
daughter,  unless  there  was  some  pressing  reason  behind  it, 
but  then  again  it  was  true  what  John  Henry  said  about 
there  being  no  worldly  considerations  in  his  mind — there 
couldn't  be.  John  Henry  Hyde  was  a  notoriously  well-to- 
do  man.  Ed  could  not  help  a  fleeting  wonder  that  his  osten- 
tatiously moral  present  had  so  completely  obliterated  his 
highly  colored  past  in  the  mind  of  so  strait-laced  a  man  and 
strict  church  man  as  John  Henry,  but  who  was  he  to  ques- 
tion the  ways  of  Divine  Providence?  He  had  not  the  least 
suspicion  that  it  was  his  past,  and  the  poorly  glossed  over 
marks  of  it  on  him,  that  gave  him  his  value  as  a  counter 
in  John  Henry's  game.  He  did  not,  in  his  wildest  imagin- 
ings, suspect  John  Henry  of  any  sort  of  game.  No,  he 
merely  seemed  to  Ed  a  worthy  but  gullible  creature  whose 
open  simplicity  of  speech  and  act  gave  him  yet  another 
attraction  as  a  father-in-law. 

The  longer  these  various  arguments  revolved  in  his  mind, 
the  more  convincing,  the  more  inviting,  they  became.  It 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  315 

was  amazing  that  no  such  solution  had  occurred  to  himself. 
Marriage.  How  easy!  How  simple!  He  could  hold  up 
his  head  with  his  fellows  and  reply  to  their  banter:  "You 
think  you  know  a  lot,  but  you're  not  so  much  after  all. 
That  little  girl's  going  to  marry  me — fact — yes,  we've  made 
it  all  up.  Oh — that  nonsense  at  the  tournament — pooh — 
we'd  just  had  a  little  spat,  that  was  all.  She  didn't  mean  to 
let  me  down  so."  He  could  hear  himself  saying  it.  It 
would  explain,  it  would  reinstate  him.  The  sullenness 
gradually  cleared  from  his  face,  he  regarded  John  Henry 
almost  affectionately. 

"You're  perfectly  correct  in  thinking,  Brother  Hyde,  that 
I  had  no  intention  except  marriage  when  I  started  going 
with  Judy.  I  don't  even  like  to  hear  you  hint  at  anything 
else."  (Might  as  well  get  all  the  credit  he  could  out  of  it!) 
"Of  course  I  was  considerable  wrought  up  by  yesterday's 
proceedings,  but  I  can  see  it,  now  you've  put  it  to  me,  just 
how  it  happened.  I  certainly  appreciate  your  coming  over 
here  this  morning  to  have  this  little  talk.  I  reckon — now, 
what  would  you  advise  me  to  do,  exactly?" 

John  Henry  was  ready  with  his  remedy.  "Why,  just  act 
like  nothing  had  happened.  Stay  away  a  few  days,  till  she 
begins  to  miss  you,  and  then  drop  over  to  supper,  casual 
like, — say  about  Thursday.  You'll  see,  pretty  plain,  how 
she  feels.  I  won't  mention  that  I've  been  over." 

"Nor  I  won't.  Say,  if  we  can  make  it  up  all  right,  I'd 
just  as  soon  have  the  wedding  pretty  quick." 

John  Henry  paused,  his  foot  on  the  buggy  step,  ready 
to  get  in. 

"Virgie  and  Brother  Todd  are  to  be  united  along  in  the 
New  Year,"  he  offered.  "The  Presiding  Elder  himself  will 
perform  the  ceremony.  I  don't  see  any  reason  why  it 
shouldn't  be  a  double  wedding,  if  you're  agreeable." 

There  was  only  one  thing  lacking,  meditated  John  Henry, 
as  he  drove  away,  and  that  was  the  consent  of  the  pros- 
pective bride.  He  promised  himself  that  he  would  effect 
that. 


316  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

At  first  he  said  nothing  about  it,  leaving  Judy  under  the 
ban  of  his  displeasure,  but  not  much  more  so  than  usual.  He 
ignored  her,  apparently,  and  she  kept  out  of  his  sight  as 
far  as  possible.  She  was  still  dazed  with  the  outrage  of  his 
violence,  and  upon  that  came  the  news  that  Lee  Kemp  had 
gone  away  for  good,  and  that  Mart  Bladen  was  lying  near 
to  death  from  a  fall,  an  accident  as  yet  unexplained.  Be- 
side these  calamities  John  Henry's  anger  dwindled  to 
nothing. 

"Let  me  go  over  and  see  Unc'  Mart,"  she  had  begged 
Louellen,  from  the  first.  "Let  me  go,  Mother.  I'll  slip 
over  when  Pa's  away.  He'll  surely  expect  me  to  come.  I 
want  to  see  him  myself." 

But  Louellen  was  unexpectedly  firm.  John  Henry  was 
so  mild  she  could  not  see  him  roused  up  again.  "You  can't 
do  a  thing  for  him,  Judy,  and  both  his  sisters  are  there. 
Besides,  they  tell  me  he's  in  a  stupor  most  of  the  time.  I'd 
rather  you'd  not  go.  Some  way  or  other  your  Pa  might 
get  hold  of  it,  and  then  we'll  have  all  this  to-do  over  again, 
worse  than  ever.  No,  you  stay  on  the  place,  like  he  told 
you." 

"But,  Mother— it's  Unc'  Mart." 

But  Louellen  would  not  yield.  To  deny  Judy  this  was  a 
small  price  to  pay  for  peace  at  home.  She  could  not  alto- 
gether trust  John  Henry's  abatement  of  wrath.  Possibly 
he  was  having  Judy  watched.  .  .  .  She  would  not  have 
him  provoked  again. 

As  for  Judy,  first  Mart's  illness,  then  the  going  of  Lee, 
first  one,  then  the  other,  deluged  her  with  grief.  Her 
whole  world  had  gone  awry  ever  since  that  day  of  the 
tournament.  If  Lee  had  only  come  to  say  good-by!  "He 
was  so  discouraged  when  he  lost  the  tournament  he  just 
cut  and  run,"  she  told  herself.  "Oh,  if  I  could  only  do 
that,  too." 

She  did  not  know  where  he  had  gone  and  she  did  not 
dare  ask  any  one  save  Mammy  Rachel,  and  the  small  tidings 
that  the  old  woman  brought  back  to  her  were  not  reassur- 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  317 

ing.  "Folks  say  he  way  out  West  somewhere — nobody 
doan  know  jes  zacly  where,"  she  reported. 

To  be  thus  bereft,  thus  roughly  deprived  of  all  solace, 
subdued  and  destroyed  Judy's  will.  She  was  pale  and  tame 
when  Young  Ed  made  his  promised  supper  visit,  and  re- 
peated the  apology  John  Henry  had  dinned  into  her,  with 
real  feeling.  She  had  so  suffered  she  could  understand  how 
cruel  it  was  to  make  any  one  else  suffer.  She  was  ashamed 
before  him,  she  did  not  dislike  him  so  much.  And  she 
could  say,  "I  am  sorry  I  was  rude,  I  really  am,"  and  look 
at  him  as  if  she  meant  it.  He,  observing  her  confusion, 
her  loss  of  color,  set  it  all  down  to  her  feeling  for  himself 
and  was  pleased  accordingly. 

Slowly  and  with  craft,  John  Henry  urged  Young  Ed's 
suit  for  him,  letting  him  keep  silence,  and  Judy,  being  hope- 
less, came  slowly,  slowly,  more  and  more  under  the  influence 
of  that  dominant  aggressive  will  that  was  never  tired  in 
beating  back  her  own.  What  was  the  use  of  struggling! 
Lee  was  gone !  Unc'  Mart  was  as  good  as  gone.  She  was 
in  such  depths  of  despair  as  only  youth  can  ever  know,  the 
same  despair  that  had  gripped  Lee  after  the  tournament, 
the  despair  that  leaves  no  way  of  escape,  no  loophole  for 
the  future,  the  despair  that  brings  one  to  a  blank  wall,  and 
leaves  one  there,  beating  against  it. 

Beating  against  it,  yes,  for  a  while,  but  after  a  little  one 
ceases  to  beat.  One  stands,  with  arms  dropped,  waiting, 
waiting  for  nothing  but  the  imperceptible  passage  of  time. 
And  the  heart  plays  a  funeral  march,  and  all  the  move- 
ment of  the  soul  and  the  body  is  ordered  to  fit  its  dreary 
tempo. 

A  strong  impulse  from  without  will  carry  one,  then,  in 
any  direction,  even  in  the  direction  one  would  normally 
never  go.  So  with  Judy.  And  John  Henry's  persistent, 
nagging  will  supplied  the  motive  that  pushed  her  ever 
nearer  to  Young  Ed. 

It  was  not  until  he  actually  made  it  clear  that  he  expected 
her  to  marry  Young  Ed  at  New  Year  when  Virgie  married 


318  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

Willy  Todd  that  she  knew  where  she  had  been  driven.  She 
turned  to  Louellen  in  a  gust  of  rebellion. 

Louellen  had  been  watching  events  anxiously,  but  help- 
lessly. Young  Ed  still  was  to  her  harmless  enough,  not 
prepossessing,  to  be  sure,  but  not  impossible.  Perhaps 
through  marriage  to  him  lay  Judy's  escape  from  John 
Henry,  she  had  thought,  and  so  she  had  kept  silence.  She 
was  ignorant  of  Lee,  and  Judy's  feeling  for  him — she  was 
unaware  that  they  even  knew  each  other,  and  she  passion- 
ately wanted  Judy  away — out  of  the  house,  out  of  John 
Henry's  sight,  out  of  earshot,  out  of  his  power  to  injure. 
Her  sense  of  expediency  saw  Young  Ed  as  a  possible  means 
to  that  desirable  end — not  the  best  means,  perhaps,  but  at 
hand  and  available.  And  now  came  Judy  in  this  fresh 
distress. 

"But  Judy — "  expostulated  her  mother,  "I  thought  you 
had  made  it  up  that  yob  liked  Ed  Galloway.  You've  been 
nice  and  pleasant  to  him  lately.  I  didn't  say  anything  be- 
cause I  didn't  want  to  urge  you — " 

"But  Mother — Mother — to  marry  him — to  live  along  of 
that  terrible  toad's  face  and  toad's  hands — Mother — you 
won't  let  me  do  it — you  won't — you  can't — mother — ' 

Swift  across  Louellen's  mind  came  that  day  of  her  own 
wedding  when  she  had  clutched  as  frantically,  as  hysteri- 
cally at  her  own  mother  and  begged  deliverance  from  one 
she  hated — and  had  not  received  it.  Perhaps  Ed  Galloway 
had  revealed  himself  to  Judy  even  as  John  Henry  had  to 
her.  The  thought  shook  her  soul. 

"I  can't— I  can't—"  Judy  was  crying.  "I'll  kill  myself 
first.  Ed  Galloway's  a  dreadful  man — I  won't  marry  him! 
And  he'll  make  me  do  it — Pa'll  make  me  do  it.  Oh,  I'm 
afraid  of  him — he'll  make  me  do  it — this  is  what  he's  been 
up  to  all  this  time — to  make:  ine  do  something  I  hate  so's 
to  hurt  and  punish  me — but  I  won't — I  won't — " 

"Hush,"  said  Louellen,  "Hush!  No,  you  shan't — nothing 
shall  make  you — "  But  instantly  she  knew  that  Judy's 
words  were  true,  that  again  she  had  divined  the  hidden  ma- 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  319 

lignancy  of  John  Henry,  had  seen  through  to  his  secret  pur- 
pose. And  Louellen  knew  more — that  the  matter  was 
past  her  hands  to  remedy.  That  nothing  she  could  say  or 
do  would  swerve  John  Henry  now.  He  had  tricked  them 
all. 

She  thought  again  of  her  threat  to  tell — her  threat  to  tell 
publicly,  before  every  one.  So  John  Henry  had  risked  that. 
He  had  thought  she  could  not  do  it.  And  could  she — would 
she?  Again  she  doubted.  Could  she  stretch  out  her  arms 
against  the  enclosing  pillars,  and  like  a  blind  Samson  bring 
the  whole  tradition  of  their  respectability,  their  decent  pride, 
down  on  their  heads,  felling  them  all  in  never-ending 
ignominy  and  shame?  If  it  was  on  herself  and  John  Henry 
alone — yes !  But  Virgie  and  Bud  would  be  crushed  beneath 
the  ruins — and  Judy,  most  of  all.  To  what  worse  destruc- 
tion might  such  revelation  bring  Judy!  No,  not  yet — not 
yet — John  Henry's  risk  was  sound.  It  had  not  been  her 
threat  of  confession  that  had  held  his  hand  from  Judy. 
She  saw  that  now.  But  he  meant  to  have  his  way  with 
her,  nevertheless,  and  a  vision  of  what  that  way  meant  to 
John  Henry  was  vouchsafed  her. 

And  then  she  spoke,  as  though  the  words  had  come  to  her 
not  from  her  usual  self,  but  from  some  inner  volition  that 
had  seized  and  mastered  her,  that  directed  her  through 
some  hidden  and  unconscious  revelation,  toward  the  one 
quarter  whence  real  help  might  come.  She  took  swift  and 
desperate  resolve. 

"You  wait  till  your  Pa's  out  of  the  house,"  she  said,  "and 
then  you  go  over  to  Mart  Bladen's  and  tell  him  I  sent  you. 
Tell  him  the  pass  you're  come  to,  and  the  fix  you're  in,  and 
ask  him  what  to  do.  Be  sure  to  tell  him  I  sent  you.  He'll 
understand  that." 

"But  Unc'  Mart's  sick  in  bed — helpless — " 

"I  know.  But  still— I've  got  a  feeling  that  he'll  do 
something.  You  tell  him  I  said  he  must  do  something. 
That  it's  his  turn  to  see  to  you— that  I've  done  my 
possible — " 


320  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

"But,  mother — that's  a  queer  thing  to  say — " 

"Never  mind — you  say  it.  I'd  go  with  you,  but  it's  better 
not.  I'll  stay  here  and  if  your  Pa  should  come  in  I  can 
keep  him  from  finding  out  you're  gone.  Listen — I  think 
he's  going  now." 

They  listened.  Heavy  steps  diminishing  to  silence 
warned  them  that  the  master  of  the  house  had  left  it. 

"He'll  be  down  at  the  barn,  with  the  hands.  You  go 
right  along  now.  And  tell  me  what  I  said  you  was  to  say 
to  Mart." 

Judy  repeated  the  message  like  a  child.  "That  he  must 
do  something.  That  you'd  sent  me.  That  it's  his  turn  to 
see  to  me,  and  that  you've  done  your  possible — is  that  all, 
mother?" 

"Yes,  that's  all.    Slip  on  your  cape  and  run." 

She  did  not  kiss  her,  or  even  put  her  arms  around  her, 
but  when  she  saw  her  run  down  the  lane  and  turn  the 
corner  by  the  spring  house,  Louellen  Hyde  dropped  down 
and  buried  her  face  in  her  hands.  "If  I  wasn't  so  weak  I 
wouldn't've  done  it,"  she  cried,  defending  herself  to  her- 
self, "But  there's  nobody  else.  There's  nobody  else." 

There  had  been  urgency  in  her  mother's  voice  that  lent 
wings  to  Judy's  feet.  She  ran  with  all  speed  down  the 
faint  twisted  path,  briars  catching  her  cape,  branches  sting- 
ing across  her  face.  Somehow,  without  her  knowing, 
dreadful  unseen  forces  had  been  loosed  about  her,  and  she 
could  not  tell  what  they  would  do  to  her.  She  knew  nothing 
of  why  she  was  sent  to  Mart — it  was  strange — before,  her 
mother  had  counseled  her  not  to  go.  And  Mart  himself 
had  seemed  loath  to  make  any  move  to  help  her  when  she 
had  come  to  him  before.  Now  she  was  to  go  to  him  to 
ask  for  help.  Presently  she  forgot  to  think,  she  ran  so 
fast.  . 


CHAPTER  FOURTEEN 

IN  Mart  Bladen,  lying  still,  straining  against  the  weak- 
ness that  bound  him,  stirred  a  strange  faint  memory — 
Caesar  was  standing,  growling  softly,  as  Spot  and  Silly 
had  once  stood  and  growled.  And  some  one  was  running 
— breathless — even  as  some  one  else  had  once  run — breath- 
less, panting —  .  .  .  Instinctively  he  looked  toward  the 
window,  where,  on  that  night,  he  had  seen  Louellen's  white 
distracted  face.  .  .  .  He  listened  for  Louellen's  voice.  .  .  . 
He  was  sure  he  could  hear  her  calling  to  him. 

But  it  was  the  door  that  was  burst  open,  and  it  was  Judy 
who  entered,  to  run  to  him,  dropping  down  beside  his  bed, 
burrowing  her  head  into  his  shoulder,  holding  tight  to 
him. 

But  just  as  at  that  other  time  he  demanded,  "What's  the 
matter — what's  the  matter,  honey?  Anything  wrong  over 
at  your  house — ?" 

"Nothing  but  me — nothing  but  me —  Oh,  Unc'  Mart, 
I've  wanted  so  to  see  you.  Did  you  think' queer  of  my  not 
coming?  I  wanted  to — Pa  wouldn't  let  me — " 

"I  supposed  as  much.  Here,  you  sit  on  the  side  of  the 
bed.  My,  but  you're  a  welcome  sight !  I've  been  thinking 
about  you  a  whole  lot." 

"And  I  was  thinking  about  you.  Oh,  that  was  one  rea- 
son I've  been  so  unhappy.  But  I'm  forgetting — " 

"Forgetting?" 

She  drew  away  from  him,  settled  herself  more  quietly 
on  the  bed,  holding  tightly  to  his  hands.  She  fixed  her  eyes 
on  his  earnestly:  "Ma  sent  me  over  here.  She  said  you 
must  do  something.  She  said  it  was  your  turn  to  do  some- 
thing for  me,  because  she'd  done  her  possible." 

"Louellen  sent  me  that  word?"  It  was  a  long-silent 

321 


322  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

voice  speaking  to  him — a  voice  he  must  answer.  "Lou- 
ellen?  What  for,  Judy— what's  behind  it?" 

And  now  she  told  him  the  rest.  She  was  being  forced 
to  marry  Ed  Galloway  .  .  .  no,  Pa  didn't  threaten  her  ex- 
actly, but  he  kept  at  her.  .  .  .  He  kept  telling  her  what  a 
slight  she'd  put  on  him,  and  how  this  was  the  only  way  to 
make  it  up.  .  .  .  That  he'd  make  her  a  good  husband.  .  .  . 
That  everybody  thought  she  was  going  to  marry  him,  and 
it  would  be  another  and  more  dreadful  slight  if  she  tried 
to  back  out  of  it.  ... 

"I  don't  know  how  it  is,"  she  confessed  at  the  end.  "I 
don't  want  to  do  it,  I  hate  Ed  Galloway,  but  Pa  keeps  at 
me  so — somehow — I  don't  seem  to  have  any  will  of  my 
own  left.  I'm  afraid  .  .  .  I'm  afraid  he'll  make  me  do 
it."  She  paused,  recollecting  her  other  grief.  "Oh,  Unc' 
Mart,  what  made  Lee  go  off  without  leaving  any  word 
for  me?" 

"But  he  did,  Judy,  he  did.  He  left  word  with  me,  and 
then  I  had  to  fall  out  the  loft  like  a  sack  o'  meal,  and 
couldn't  bring  it  to  you,  and  I've  been  so  wrop  up  in  my 
own  self  I  let  it  go  by,  anyway.  I  might've  got  a  letter  to 
you,  I  suppose.  But  I  kind  of  thought  every  day  you'd 
slip  off  and  come  to  see  me." 

"What  word  did  he  leave  me,  Unc'  Mart — please?" 

"He  left  word  you  was  to  wait  for  him,  and  that  he'd 
come  back  soon  as  he  could  come  with  his  head  up,  and 
money  in  his  pockets.  And  he  asked  me  to  look  out  for  you 
till  he  come." 

She  sighed,  her  young  face  strangely  sad.  "I  wish  he 
hadn't  gone.  It  was  most  too  late — that  message,  wasn't 
it,  Unc'  Mart?" 

"No,  it's  not,"  cried  Mart  loudly.  "You're  not  in  such 
a  bad  fix  yet,  Judy.  You're  all  shook  up  now,  and  excited. 
Stay  here  with  me  a  little  while,  and  let's  see  what  we  can 
do.  I've  got  out  of  worse  coils  than  this,  by  Judas  Priest, 
I  have." 

Confidence  is  catching  and  youth  unconsciously  takes  its 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  323 

key  from  the  nearest  loudest  note.  Judy  dropped  a  little 
of  her  anxiety.  She  looked  round  her  practically. 

"I  might  redd  up  this  room,"  she  offered.  "It  looks  like 
a  hurrah's  nest.  I  don't  see  why  Ephum  lets  things  get 
so  bad." 

"It's  more  me  than  Ephum,"  said  Mart,  absent-mindedly. 
He  watched  her  as  she  moved  about,  picking  up  the  scat- 
tered papers,  hanging  up  clothes,  carrying  out  dirty 
tumblers,  wiping  dust  away.  It  was  dear  and  wonderful 
to  see  her  thus  engaged,  her  yellow  hair  a  light  in  the  dingi- 
ness,  her  grace  a  leaven  to  the  barrenness.  But  he  did  not 
forget  that  the  problem  he  had  set  for  himself  had  now  been 
literally  thrown  at  him  for  solution.  He  must  not  fail  Lou- 
ellen  and  her  trust.  In  the  short  time  yet  allowed  to  him 
he  must  do  that  for  Judy  which  would  keep  her  life  un- 
spoiled for  the  living  of  it,  give  her  herself,  inviolate,  body 
and  soul,  for  the  future. 

"I  could  hire  her  for  a  nurse,"  he  mused,  "but  John 
Henry  Hyde'd  raise  the  neighborhood,  and  being  under  age 
he  could  take  her  back  by  force,  if  he  was  so  minded.  And 
he'd  be  so  minded.  Even  if  he  let  her  stay,  it'd  only  be  for 
the  little  while  I've  got  left  and  then  she'd  be  right  back 
where  she'd  started.  If  I  was  to  make  my  will  and  leave 
her  everything  I've  got,  the  Deacon'd  get  his  claws  on  every 
cent  before  a  month  was  out,  and  more'n  likely  Sis  Mollie 
and  Sis  Rhoda  would  make  a  fuss  and  contest  it  and  in  the 
end  Judy  might  get  nothing.  That  Lee  ain't  coming  back 
till  he's  done  something  worth  showing,  and  there  wouldn't 
be  any  use  his  coming  till  he  did.  If  she  run  off  with  him 
they'd  have  it  hard  and  poor.  I  don't  want  to  leave  things 
thataway.  Well,  I  served  notice  on  the  Lord  that  I  wasn't 
going  to  die  till  I'd  got  some  plan  to  make  Judy  scot-free 
and  independent,  but  I  hadn't  any  idea  He  was  going  to 
take  me  up  so  quick.  But  I'll  match  Him.  I'm  not  going 
to  let  John  Henry  push  my  little  Judy  into  Ed  Galloway's 
filthy  paws — " 

He  opened  his  eyes  wide  and  stared  at  Judy  as  he  slowly 


324  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

followed  the  first  gleam  of  possibility.  Why,  it  was  very 
simple.  So  simple  that  it  was  strange  he  had  not  thought 
of  it  in  the  very  first  moment.  It  was  a  way,  he  assured 
himself,  that  would  bring  about  all  he  desired,  all  that  Judy 
needed.  It  would  even  provide  safeguards  for  her  future 
that  otherwise  he  could  not  give.  As  for  himself — he  could 
have  lifted  his  great  voice  and  hallooed  for  joy.  He  need 
not  die  alone  and  uncompanioned.  Here  was  also  the  way 
out  of  his  loneliness,  out  of  his  darkness. 

Yet  it  was  daring — daring  even  for  Mart  Bladen  who 
had  never  shirked  a  hurdle,  however  high.  He  thought 
of  the  risks  of  it — for  this  was  a  high  hurdle  indeed.  Un- 
easy qualms  made  themselves  vaguely  felt,  but  he  would  not 
yield  to  them,  yet  he  knew  he  must  act  quickly  before  they 
had  time  to  strengthen.  Act  first  and  repent  afterward,  had 
been  one  of  his  pet  jests.  He  did  not  mean  to  exchange  it 
for  anything  cooler  and  less  foolhardy  now. 

Was  it  selfish? — well  then,  he  meant  to  have  something 
for  himself.  Now  at  the  last.  It  was  for  such  a  little  time. 
Later  there  would  be  Lee — or  maybe  some  other  clean  lithe 
boy  with  clear  eyes  and  a  heart  to  break  and  be  mended  by 
Judy.  Lee  would  understand.  He  would  write  to  him. 
Write  to  him  fully,  plainly.  He  would  not  care.  If  he  did, 
it  could  not  be  helped.  Since  he  could  not  defend  his  own, 
Mart  must  use  such  defense  as  he  could  choose.  And 


"Judy,"  he  began,  "stop  fussing  round  the  room  and 
listen  to  me.  You  don't  want  to  go  back  home,  do  y'  ?" 

Judy  came  to  the  foot  of  the  bed  and  answered  somberly. 
"I  haven't  got  any  other  place  to  go.  Pa'd  come  and  get 
me  back  anywhere  I  went.  And  then  it'd  be  worse  than 
ever." 

"Would  you  like  to  stay  over  here  with  me  ?  I'd  buy  you 
lots  of  pretties,  and  you  could  have  a  riding  horse  and 
everything  you  want." 

"And  I  could  take  care  of  you  and  nurse  you  and  see 
that  your  room  was  all  clean  and  neat,"  flashed  Judy  with 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  325 

instant  response.  "But  there,  what's  the  use  of  talking 
about  it.  Pa'd  be  more  against  that  than  anything." 

Now  for  the  crucial  moment.  Mart  Bladen's  voice  shook 
a  little.  "There's  one  way  you  could  stay  and  John  Henry 
couldn't  help  it.  Suppose  I  was  to  send  in  town  for  a 
license  and  get  Judge  Markwood  out  here— he's  a  justice 
of  t'-ie  peace,  too,  you  know— and  he  should  marry  you  and 
me,  Judy?  How  about  that?  Then  you'd  have  a  right  to 
stay  and  do  as  you  please  and  go  as  you  please,  and  the 
Deacon  might  ra'r  till  he  gets  tired,  and  that's  all  the  good 
it'd  do  him.  As  for  Young  Ed— pooh— that'd  be  the  end 
of  him.  'Twouldn't  be  nothing  at  all  but  having  Judge 
Markwood  say  a  few  words  before  us,  and  then,  I  could 
take  care  of  you,  Judy.  And  you'd  have  to  take  care  of  me, 
for  the  little  bit  of  time  I'm  going  to  be  here.  You  could 
keep  things  redd  up  and  boss  Ephum  and  Sally  and  give 
me  my  medicine  and  read  the  paper  to  me.  Come — what 
say?  Don't  you  want  to  swap  off  trouble  for  peace  and 
kindness  ?" 

He  watched  her  narrowly  and  was  relieved  to  see  that 
she  was  not  shocked,  nor  surprised.  She  met  his  eyes  as 
she  had  always  done,  like  an  honest  child.  "But — Unc' 
Mart,"  she  said,  "I  never  said  anything,  but — I  always  laid 
out  in  my  mind  that  I'd  marry  Lee  when  I  grew  up.  I 
think  he  means  to  come  back  after  me,  too.  Only  he  went 
off  so  funny — " 

Mart  could  not  help  laughter.  "Judy,"  he  said,  growing 
serious,  "I've  got  a  year  to  live,  and  that's  all.  You  might 
as  well  know  that.  For  all  you're  a  child  in  a  lot  of  ways, 
I  want  you  to  remember  that  I  told  you  everything,  fair 
and  square.  Going  through  the  marriage  ceremony  with 
me  won't  mean  a  thing  except  that  you'll  be  out  of  John 
Henry's  power  and  jurisdiction  forever,  and  you'll  live  here 
in  this  house,  like — like  you  was  my  child.  When  I  go, 
you'll  be  free  and  independent,  with  my  prop'ty,  for  I'll 
leave  it  all  to  you.  I  want  you  here  with  me  for  that  year, 
Judy.  I  want  you  round,  laughing  and  teasing  me,  and 


326  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

eating  licorice  and  bothering  Sally.  I  want  you  to  take  care 
of  me,  and  I  want  to  take  care  of  you,  like  I  said.  After- 
ward, if  Lee  comes  back,  you'll  be  free  and  happy,  I  hope, 
waiting  for  him.  It  won't  be  my  fault  if  you're  not. 
There's  the  whole  case,  plain." 

She  ran  to  him,  put  her  arms  around  him.  Only  one 
thing  was  clear  to  her,  but  it  was  enough.  "Unc'  Mart — 
you  don't  mean  it — only  a  year !  Oh,  Unc'  Mart !  Yes,  yes, 
let  me  stay  here  with  you — I  don't  care  about  Lee  or  the 
prop'ty  or  anything,  only  to  stay  here  and  take  care  of  you." 
Her  loving,  grieving  tears  wet  his  cheek. 

"There,  there — what  a  freshet!"  he  said,  half  teasing. 
"Don't  do  that,  Judy.  We  got  to  move  and  move  quick, 
now,  else  the  Deacon  might  put  a  spoke  in  our  wheel  after 
all.  Dry  up  your  eyes  and  reach  me  down  the  ink-bottle 
and  a  piece  of  paper,  and  then  call  Ephum  and  tell  him  to 
have  one  of  the  hands  saddle  up  to  ride  in  town.  I  think 
I'll  send  for  Doc  Tithelow,  too.  I  don't  want  any  question- 
ings— later  on." 

He  laboriously  wrote  his  letter  while  Judy  looked  on, 
wondering,  yet  palpably  trusting.  Ephum  was  called  in  and 
dispatched  with  his  instructions,  and  following  him,  Sally 
was  summoned. 

"Miss  Judy's  going  to  be  here  for  dinner,"  said  Mart, 
"so  you  want  to  fix  up  something  that'll  please  a  sweet 
tooth." 

"Now  we're  started,"  he  went  on  to  Judy.  "There's  a 
room  right  over  this  one,  upstairs,  used  to  be  my  mother's. 
You  go  on  up  and  look  at  it  and  see  if  you  like  it,  and  if 
you  want  any  new  things  for  it,  because  it'll  be  yours  from 
this  time  on.  You  can  just  projeck  around  all  over  the 
house,  if  you  want  to.  I'll  have  to  depend  on  you  to  get 
everything  fixed  up  to  your  liking,  you  know." 

She  went  eagerly,  diverted.  He  heard  her  light  steps 
running  up  the  stairs  and  smiled. 


CHAPTER  FIFTEEN 

JUDGE  MARKWOOD  and  Doctor  Tithelow  had  been  aston- 
ished, but  after  an  explanation,  approving. 

"It's  thisaway  with  me.  I  want  to  leave  her  my  prop'ty 
and  if  she  takes  my  name  I  can  do  it,  and  keep  Sis  Mollie 
and  Sis  Rhoda  off  it,  and  more'n  that,  she'll  be  shut  forever 
of  John  Henry  Hyde's  devilishness.  He's  set  and  deter- 
mined to  marry  her  off  to  Young  Ed  Galloway,  and  she  run 
off  over  here  in  desperation.  I  don't  see  what  else  there  is 
to  do.  She's  the  only  human  being  I  care  a  silver  three- 
cent  piece  for,  or  that  cares  a  silver  three-cent  piece  for  me. 
I  been  fond  of  her  ever  since  she  was  knee  high  to  a  pint 
cup,  and  watched  her  grow  up  and  all.  You  know  what 
marrying  her  to  Young  Ed  would  be,  don't  you?  And 
maybe  I  was  figuring  one  for  Judy  and  two  for  myself,  for 
it's  a  mighty  gratifying  thought  to  me  to  have  her  round 
for  the  little  time  I've  got  to  stay." 

"John  Henry  Hyde  ought  to  be  tarred  and  feathered," 
snorted  Doc  Tithelow.  "Young  Ed  Galloway's  tainted  and 
he  knows  it,  as  well  as  any  man  in  the  county." 

The  Judge  nodded  his  head  augustly.  "He  comes  of 
bad  stock,"  he  pronounced.  "If  I  had  a  daughter  and  he 
came  courting  her,  I'd  send  my  nigger  out  to  beat  him.  I 
wouldn't  dirty  my  own  hands  with  him." 

"You  can  tie  us  up  rock-bound,  can't  you,  Judge  ?"  asked 
Mart.  "She's  under  age,  but  will  that  make  any  differ- 
ence? And  before  you  go  I  want  you  should  draw  me  my 
will." 

"It  will  be  binding,"  said  the  Judge,  "even  though  she  is 
a  minor.  Hyde  wouldn't  dare  start  annulment  proceedings. 
It  could  be  brought  out  that  the  girl  fled  to  you  from  the 
prospect  of  being  forced  into  marrying  young  Galloway. 
I'll  see  to  Hyde  if  he  attempts  to  make  trouble." 

327 


328  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

"Call  me  as  a  witness,"  added  Doctor  Tithelow  with  a 
chuckle. 

"Then  I  guess  we'd  better  send  for  her  and  get  this  over 
with,"  said  Mart.  "Until  I've  got  a  legal  hold  on  her  I'm 
none  too  sure  of  what  John  Henry  might  do." 

"I'll  call  in  Ephum  and  Sally,"  said  the  Doctor,  and 
stepped  to  the  door.  "Come  on,  Judy,"  he  said,  "I've  got 
a  bad  fever  patient  down  in  the  Neck  and  I've  got  to  get 
along." 

Judy  appeared  simultaneously  with  the  two  servants. 

"Stand  over  here  by  the  bed,"  said  the  Judge,  looking 
at  her  kindly.  She  did  so,  and  took  affectionately  the  hand 
Mart  held  out  to  her.  She  was  neither  excited  nor  even 
deeply  interested,  save  that  she  had  escaped  from  home. 
Unc'  Mart  said  this  was  all  right  and  that  had  satisfied  her 
docile,  unmolded  mind. 

The  brief  and  businesslike  words  of  the  civil  ceremony 
being  said,  Ephum  relieved  an  awkward  moment. 

"Sally  and  me  p'sents  our  best  respecks  en  fair  wishes," 
he  said,  grandiloquently  bowing  and  scraping.  "Sally,  you 
go  right  erlong  en  stir  up  a  cake  en  I'll  kill  a  couple  chickens. 
We  cain'  eat  no  such  trash  as  po'k  dumplings  en  apple  pie 
to-day." 

"That's  the  right  idea,  Ephum,"  spoke  the  Doctor.  "Well 
now,  everything's  fixed  up  according  to  law  and  order 
and  I'll  have  to  be  riding." 

"No,  you  stay  and  witness  my  will,"  said  Mart.  "Run 
on  out,  Judy." 

The  will  was  very  short,  and  after  the  Judge  and  the 
Doctor  had  gone,  Judy  poked  her  fair  head  into  the  room 
again. 

"Say,  Unc'  Mart,"  she  said,  "oughtn't  I  go  home  and 
tell  Ma?" 

"I  don't  believe  I  would.  If  the  Deacon  gets  the  idea 
that  she  connived  at  this  he  might  blame  her  and  say  a  good 
bit  more'n  his  prayers.  Besides,  I  don't  want  you  under 
his  roof  no  more." 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  329 

She  paused  a  little,  puzzled  by  her  change  in  status. 

"Well — am  I  going  to  stay  right  along  now?  I'll  have 
to  have  my  clothes  and  things,  Unc'  Mart." 

"You  fcan  ride  in  town  to-morrow  and  buy  yourself  some 
clothes,"  he  promised.  "I  expect  you  can  get  along  till  then. 
Set  down  and  read  me  the  last  Democrat  till  dinner's  ready. 
Or  maybe  you'd  like  to  talk  about  how  you'd  want  to  fix 
up  this  old  place." 

The  abilities  of  that  notable  housewife,  Jane  West,  had 
not  been  wholly  lost  in  her  granddaughter.  Judy  assumed 
a  mature  air  and  spoke  with  emphasis. 

"I  reckon  I  would.  Everything's  got  to  be  cleaned — 
mercy,  I  could  scrub  for  a  week  and  not  get  done!  And 
new  paint!  And  whitewash!  And  curtains!" 

"I  don't  want  this  place  all  prettified  up  like  a  dollhouse," 
he  teased.  "Next  thing  you'll  want  to  tie  a  ribbon  round 
my  neck." 

Judy  could  tease  as  well  as  he:  "A  blue  one  to  match 
your  eyes,  Unc'  Mart.  You'd  look  fine!" 

"You  got  blue  eyes,  too,  you  know,"  he  said,  "so  I  reckon 
you'll  have  to  wear  the  ribbon  for  me.  But  maybe  we 
might  whitewash  up  a  little,  though  I'm  not  going  to 
promise  about  the  curtains.  Everybody's  told  me  all  my 
life  that  I'd  finally  be  ruined  by  women's  whims,  and  I'm 
not  going  to  have  it  come  true  at  this  late  date.  Besides, 
I  want  to  see  out  the  window.  It's  the  most  life  I  get." 

"I  forgot."  She  was  instantly  contrite.  "Unc'  Mart — 
will  people  call  me  Mrs.  Bladen  now?" 

"If  they  know  what's  what,  they  will." 

She  reflected  on  this.  "I'm  glad.  You've  always  seemed 
more  like  my  own  folks  than  any  of  them,  except  Mother, 
and  now  you  really  are." 

He  was  startled.    "Did  you  ever  say  that  to  your  Ma?" 

"I  don't  think  so,  but  it's  true,  all  the  same.  I'm  going 
out  in  the  kitchen  and  get  me  some  bread  and  sugar.  I'm 
hungry.  I've  hardly  eaten  a  bite  to-day  I've  been  so  worked 
up."  She  came  back  a  moment  later,  to  say  a  little  wor- 


330  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

riedly :  "Pa'll  be  so  mad  at  me  now !     But  he  can't  do  a 
thing  to  me,  can  he?" 

Mart's  answering  shout  followed  her :  "You  bet  he  can't." 

But  he  was  not  so  sure.  John  Henry  Hyde  was  tena- 
cious and  revengeful.  "And  if  he  begins  to  speak,"  Mart 
Bladen  told  himself,  "there's  no  knowing  to  what  lengths 
he'll  go.  If  I  was  a  sound  man  instead  of  being  laid  here 
in  this  bed  like  a  log,  I'd  not  be  afraid  of  him,  for  I  could 
stop  him  no  matter  what  he  said  or  did.  But  thisaway — 
He  felt  a  rising  tide  of  apprehension.  It  would  not  wait — 
John  Henry's  retaliation.  It  would  be  immediate,  and  vile. 
Mart  knew  the  man.  "He'll  strike  like  a  rattlesnake,"  he 
thought  restlessly. 

Even  while  he  waited  there  was  a  sound  of  hurrying 
heavy  footsteps  on  the  doorstone,  and  John  Henry  him- 
self strode  in  at  the  door,  his  face  twisted  with  anger.  Be- 
hind him  came  Louellen  Hyde,  hatless,  dishevelled  by  haste, 
fear  incarnate. 

"Where's  the  girl?"  demanded  John  Henry. 

Mart  Bladen's  bed  was  high  and  he  was  well  propped 
with  pillows.  He  stretched  his  right  hand  toward  the 
bell  that  would  summon  Ephum,  but  did  not  ring. 

"This  is  right  neighborly  of  you,  John  Henry,"  he  said 
softly,  "right  neighborly.  Won't  you  sit  down?  And 
you,  too,  Louellen."  His  voice  changed  to  anxious  gentle- 
ness when  he  spoke  to  her.  She  leaned  toward  him,  her 
hands  clasped,  entreating. 

"If  you're  harboring  Judy — "  began  the  Deacon,  but 
Bladen  interrupted  him. 

"I  reckon  you  might  call  it  harboring.  Judy's  here  and 
she's  going  to  stay.  Judge  Markwood  brought  out  a  license 
an  hour  ago  and  married  her  to  me.  What  you  got  to  say 
to  that?" 

The  room  was  full  of  breathing,  battling  emotions.  The 
black  vein  in  John  Henry's  head  jerked  with  the  violence 
of  his  fury.  His  whole  body  shook  with  emotion,  and  his 
mouth  twitched  and  panted  like  a  man  in  epilepsy.  He 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  331 

lifted  lean  strong  hands  in  crooked  threatening  gestures. 
He  turned  on  his  wife. 

"All  these  years  I  kept  silence,"  he  began  at  last,  the 
words  like  blows.  "All  these  years  I  forgave  you  your 
mortal  sin,  Louellen,  and  overlooked  your  transgression. 
And  now  you  plot  and  scheme  with  this  vile  and  wretched 
man,  this  wretched  sinner  who  ain't  more'n  a  step  from  the 
devil's  clutches  and  with  eternity  staring  him  in  the  face, — 
you  plot  and  scheme  with  him  for  this  abomination.  Woe 
unto—" 

"You  keep  a  civil  tongue  in  your  head,  John  Henry," 
warned  Bladen,  "and  don't  begin  the  woe-untos  here.  I 
can't  get  up  and  tackle  you,  but,  by  God,  I'll  find  some  way 
to  mark  y'  if  you  don't  heed  me." 

But  Louellen  Hyde  took  up  the  gage  and  her  loathing 
and  hatred  leaped  from  her  as  a  sword  of  shining  steel  in 
the  hand  of  desperation. 

"You  kept  silence,  John  Henry,"  she  flung  at  him.  "You 
kept  silence.  Yes — and  why  ?  Lest  something  should  come 
out  that  would  reflect  against  your  good  name!  Lest  you 
shouldn't  set  so  high  in  the  church.  They  was  the  reasons 
why  you  kept  silence.  You  knew  the  truth  from  the  first. 
But  there  wasn't  a  thought  in  your  mind,  there  wasn't  a 
thing  you  did,  or  a  wish  of  your  innermost  heart  that  wasn't 
self,  self,  self.  You  spared  yourself  the  finger-pointing  and 
the  nastiness  of  it  as  well  as  me,  and  you'd  never' ve  spared 
me  if  you  could' ve  spared  yourself  without  it.  And  you've 
always  been  cruel  and  hard  with  Judy,  punished  her  and 
ruled  her  far  different  from  the  others  because  you  knew 
you  could  best  hurt  and  spite  me  by  doing  things  to  her. 
You've  done  your  best  to  kill  every  little  spark  of  life  in 
the  child,  and  you  was  trying  to  drive  her  into  a  marriage 
that  would've  been  worse  than  mine  with  you,  if  such  a 
thing  can  be.  But  now  she's  delivered  out  of  your  hand. 
She's  free  of  you.  And  you'll  keep  silence  still,  same  as 
you've  always  done,  else — " 

She  stopped  and  turned.    The  door  from  the  kitchen  was 


332  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

flung  open  and  Judy  ran  in,  precipitate,  flushed,  laughing. 

"Oh,  Unc'  Mart, — Sally's  made  a  cake  big's — why — 
Mother — Father !" 

The  three  elders  were  held  in  hideous  immobility,  silent, 
darkened,  rigid,  waiting.  At  last  it  broke. 

"Don't  call  me  father,"  spat  John  Henry.  "There's  your 
father!" 

He  pointed  to  Mart  Bladen. 

Something  more  terrible  than  all  that  had  gone  before 
clashed  and  smothered  through  the  room,  and  the  man  on 
the  bed  struggled  with  furious  impotence  to  rise. 

"You  damned  old — "    But  Judy  stopped  him. 

"Why — "  she  stammered,  looking  from  one  to  another 
piteously.  "Why — what — " 

"Yes,  it's  true,"  went  on  John  Henry,  gloatingly,  "and 
your  mother's  connived  at  your  marrying  him.  Lot's 
daughters!  Incest!  I  wonder  God  don't  strike  you  dead, 
Louellen." 

He  gloated  over  them,  an  old  hawk,  who  has  made  his 
kill,  filled,  replete  with  revenge.  "You're  not  done  with 
this!"  he  threatened.  "I'll  see  to  you— all  of  ye!"  He 
turned  and  left  them.  They  heard  his  footsteps  on  the 
gravel  path,  toward  the  road.  Let  them  find  some  way  out 
for  themselves,  now,  these  abominable  sinners,  their  self- 
righteous  cadences  said.  He  was  done  with  them!  Yet 
in  his  going  he  acknowledged  defeat,  and  the  three  left  be- 
hind forgot  him  before  he  was  out  of  earshot. 

"Mother,"  cried  Judy.  "Mother,  is  it  true?  Is  Unc' 
Mart  really  my  father?" 

Louellen  Hyde  went  to  the  bed  and  took  Mart  Bladen's 
hand.  She  spoke  as  a  woman  who  has  been  both  afraid 
and  ashamed  to  love,  yet  has  loved  greatly  and  now  is 
neither  ashamed  nor  afraid. 

"It's  true.  I  was  promised  to  your  Unc'  Mart  and  we 
had  a  misunderstanding  and  I  took  your  Pa.  And  no  sooner 
was  I  married,  young  fool  that  I  was,  when  I  found  out 
what  marrying  without  love  means.  It  makes  you  hate 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  333 

your  body  and  it  dries  up  your  soul.  That's  what  it  did 
to  me,  anyway.  Maybe  there's  some  who  can  submit  and 
be  dutiful,  but  if  so  they  must've  got  a  different  man  than 
I  did.  And  once  when  I  was  desperate,  I  come  over  here. 
I  was  bound  to  get  away  from  John  Henry — bound  to. 
But  I  wasn't  brave  enough  to  stay.  I  went  back.  Oh, 
Mart,  I  wisht  I'd've  stayed.  I  wisht  I  had." 

"No,"  said  Mart  Bladen.  "You  couldn't've  done  differ- 
ent. I  didn't  blame  you  for  going  back.  It  would'ye  been 
more  than  you  could've  stood." 

"I've  stood  worse  things,"  said  Louellen,  thin-lipped. 

Their  hands  held  and  clung,  their  eyes  met  across  a  great 
waste  of  unlived  years.  He  who  had  been  so  careless  and 
so  strong  and  so  alive  was  now  a  broken  cripple,  near  to 
death.  She  who  had  been  so  fresh  and  beautiful  and  proud 
and  pliant,  was  now  stiff-set  and  coldly  staid  and  sallow. 
There  was  no  going  back  for  them.  They  knew  it  and  they 
turned  involuntarily  to  Judy,  pledge  of  their  love, — with 
all  of  life  before  her. 

"You  think  it's  all  right,  Louellen?"  asked  Mart.  "You 
know  full  well  it's  nothing  but  marrying  in  name.  She's 
my  daughter,  and  she's  mighty  close  in  my  heart.  I'll 
shelter  her  and  take  care  of  her,  just  as  you  have.  I 
couldn't  figure  out  no  other  way  to  get  her  free  of  John 
Henry  for  good  and  all.  And — I  wanted  somebody  of  my 
own.  You  understand,  Louellen  ?  You  trust  me  ?" 

"You  know  I  trust  you.  I  wisht  I  always  had.  When 
I  sent  her,  I  didn't  know  what  you'd  do,  but  I  was  at  the 
end  of  my  rope,  and  I  didn't  know  where  to  turn.  But  I 
had  a  feeling  that  somehow  you'd  take  care  of  her,  once  it 
was  put  before  you.  And  you  have.  And  don't  take  any 
thought  about  John  Henry.  I'll  see  that  he  keeps  his  mouth 
shut.  I — I'm  glad  Judy's  going  to  be  here  with  you,  Mart. 
It's  right  she  should  be." 

Her  voice  changed  to  commonplace.  "Now,  listen  here, 
Judy,  I'll  pack  up  some  of  your  things  and  send  'em  over 
this  evening.  And  I'll  be  coming  over  to  see  you  now  and 


334  One  Thing  Is  Certain 

then.  Bud  and  Virgie'll  be  over,  too.  You  better  not 
come  home  till  your  Pa  gets  cooled  down  some.  Take 
good  care  of  your  Unc'  Mart." 

The  naming  of  him  so  quieted  Judy's  whirling  thoughts. 
She  was  so  used  to  the  Deacon's  venom  that  it  had  touched 
her  lightly.  Her  mother's  quiet,  and  her  plain  unexcited 
words  of  farewell  made  the  wild  scene  she  had  just  now 
had  part  in  unreal  and  impossible. 

"You  better  let  me  prop  you  up  again,  all  comfortable," 
she  said  to  Mart  when  they  were  alone.  "You've  got  your 
pillows  every  whichaway." 

She  shook  the  pillows  and  readjusted  them.  "It's  queer," 
she  went  on,  half  to  herself,  half  to  him.  "I  always  loved 
you  better  than  Pa.  I  reckon  I  oughtn't  to  call  him  that." 

"Yes,  you  ought,"  said  Mart,  firmly.  "Things  must  seem 
to  go  on  just  like  they  always  have.  Nobody  must  ever 
know  what  was  said  here  to-day  except  us  four.  We  won't 
even  talk  about  it  'mongst  ourselves.  That's  for  your 
mother's  sake,  as  well  as  yours,  Judy." 

"Oh,  yes — I  see.  Anyway,  Unc'  Mart,  I'm  glad,  I'm 
glad's  I  can  be  that  you're  my  father.  I'm  glad,  whether 
we  talk  about  it  or  not." 

"You're  a  good  girl,  Judy,"  he  said.  He  leaned  wearily 
among  the  pillows.  The  emotions  of  the  day  had  shaken 
and  weakened  his  failing  body.  But  he  was  happy,  happier 
than  he  had  ever  expected  to  be.  Life  at  the  very  door  of 
death,  had  yielded  him  rich  largess,  bounty  far  beyond  his 
deserts.  He  had  no  fear  of  the  outcome  of  this  fantastic 
means  by  which  he  had  contrived  to  bring  Judy  by  his  side. 
It  would  be  to  her  protection,  development,  bloom,  and 
later,  freedom.  For  him  it  meant  the  warmth  of  a  sustain- 
ing devotion  in  the  approaching  chill. 

After  he  had  gone,  she  would  go  on,  free,  confident,  and 
later  there  would  be  love  and  a  good  man  for  her,  children 
to  play  through  these  dull  rooms,  and  run  breathless  under 
the  shade  of  the  tulip  trees  even  as  he  had  done.  It  was 
right  that  it  should  be  so.  She  was  his  child,  his  own.  On 


One  Thing  Is  Certain  335 

this  very  bed  where  he  now  lay  she  had  been  conceived,  in 
such  ecstasy  of  tenderness,  such  helpless  beauty  of  passion 
that  the  moment  had  turned  all  his  life  to  constancy,  had 
cleared  and  established  his  heart  in  a  secret  garden,  sweet 
with  the  flowers  of  remembrance,  refreshed  by  a  never- 
failing  spring  of  sureness  that  love  freely  given,  freely  re- 
turned, making  no  claims,  yielding,  accepting,  without  fear 
or  complaint,  is  forever  justified  and  right. 

The  old  laughter  came  again  to  his  eyes.  He  waved  his 
hand  jauntily  as  one  who  would  give  greeting.  His  lips 
moved.  He  was  saying,  inaudibly,  but  with  fervor  of 
gratitude : 

"Much  obliged,  God." 


TOURNAMENT  RULES  * 

I.  The  distance  shall  be  120  yards,  the  time  11  seconds  and  the 
entrance  fee  $1. 

II.  The  rings  shall  be   \y2  inches  in  diameter  excepting  in  the 
riding   off  of  ties   in   which   case   the   rings  shall   be  one   inch   in 
diameter  and  all  rings  shall  be  wrapped. 

III.  There  shall  be  three  Judges,  one  Marshal  and  two  assistants 
or  two  Heralds,  two  Timekeepers  and  one  Flagman. 

IV.  At  the  appointed  time  the  Knights  shall  all  come  mounted 
upon  their  steeds  to  the  Judges'  stand  to  hear  the  reading  of  the 
rules  and  the  charge  to  the  Knights. 

V.  After  the  reading  of  the  rules  and  the  charge  to  the  Knights 
the  Marshals  shall  conduct  the  Knights  to  the  point  of  starting. 

VI.  Each  Knight  shall  have  one  trial  ride  at  three  rings  \l/2  inches 
in  diameter. 

VII.  Each  Knight  shall  have  three  rides  at  all  three  rings  \l/2 
inches  in  diameter  for  the  prizes. 

VIII.  After  each  Knight  has  had  three  rides  at  all  three  rings  the 
Knight  who  is  found  to  have  carried  the  highest  number  of  rings  to 
the  Judges'  stand  shall  be  entitled  to  the  first  prize  with  the  privilege 
of  crowning  the   Queen  of   Love  and   Beauty,  the   Queen   of  the 
Tourney. 

IX.  The  Knights  who  are  found  to  have  returned  the  second, 
third,  fourth  and  fifth  highest  number  of  rings  shall  be  entitled  to 
the   second,   third,    fourth   and   fifth   prizes    with   the    privilege    of 
crowning  the  first,  second,  third  and  fourth  maids  to  the  Queen  of 
Love  and  Beauty,  the  Queen  of  the  Tourney. 

X.  The  Prizes  shall  be:  first  prize,  $15;  second  prize,  $10;  third 
prize,  $8 ;  fourth  prize,  $5 ;  fifth  prize,  $3. 

XL  If  at  the  end  of  the  prize  rides  any  two  or  three  or  more 
Knights  shall  be  found  to  have  returned  to  the  Judges'  stand  the 
same  number  of  rings  these  Ties  shall  be  ridden  off  and  the  rules 
governing  the  prize  riding  shall  also  govern  the  riding  off  of  Ties 
except  that  the  rings  for  the  riding  off  of  Ties  shall  be  one  inch  in 
diameter. 

XII.  Any  Knight  passing  through  the  first  Arch  and  attempting 
to  take  first  ring  must  continue  on  through  the  course  and  a  second 
ride  shall  not  be  given  to  any  Knight  except  on  account  ot  an  acci- 
dent to  the  Knight,  or  his  horse,  his  saddle  or  bridle  or  some  ob-  j 
struction  visible  to  the  Judges  comes  in  his  path. 

XIII.  If  because  of  an  accident  to  the  Knight  or  his  horse,  his   ! 
saddle  or  his  bridle,  or  if  because  some  obstruction  comes  in  his 
path  the  Judges  see  fit  to  give  to  any  Knight  a  second  ride  he  shall 
ride  for  all  three  rings. 

XIV.  The   Knights   shall   abide   strictly  by  the   decision   of   the  j 
Judges. 

XV.  After  the  riding  all  the  Knights  must  come  mounted  to  the  j 
Judges'  stand  to  hear  the  result  of  the  tilting. 

*  See  Chapter  Nine  for  a  description  of  The  Tournament. 

NOTE. — These  rules,  which  for  many  years  governed  all  Maryland  tourna- 
ments, were  obtained  through  the  kindness  of  Mr.  J.  Owen  Knotte,  of  Denton, 
Caroline  County. 

336 


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